Forever Yours, Sherlock
by Revella
Summary: All families contain a secret, and some are deadly...Old enemies are coming home, and sometimes the greatest evil is also the one closest to our hearts. James Moriarty is back from the dead, and he's not alone...S3 Rewrite! Trilogy under one title. Contains plot, character development, mature content, Sex!, violence. M/M,F/F,F/M. Four OCs, ACD influence. PART III has begun!
1. Chapter 1 Remember

** Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, but he owns my heart! Please enjoy, it has been a pleasure to write this. Chapters will be posted in pairs, once a week or so. If some of these chapters come across as a tease, it'll be worth it in the end! Please enjoy, and review if you want! Thank you!**

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><p><strong>Forever Yours<strong>

by

S.J.H, "Revella"

(Takes place during The Empty Hearse, the first two weeks after his return to London, and then the story diverges from there.)

**Chapter One **

** "Remember"**

Sherlock stood in the early morning sunlight spilling across the floor of his flat, unmoving and silent. The puzzle Mycroft had resurrected him for took physical form upon the wall he faced; the shot up smiley face barely visible. Dozens of papers, pictures, handwritten notes and snippets of dates, names and times connected in a convoluted shape he struggled to bring into focus. He could not yet fathom the pattern- he knew it was just outside his reach.

The warmth of the rare autumn sun had yet to heat his blood, his mind far away, spinning and chaotic. It was full of dead ends, and tangents of thought irrelevant to his current case. Pushing aside distractions was difficult this morning, resulting in the detective not sleeping the night before, and his place on the spot he was standing was long accustomed to his unmoving weight. He hadn't noticed the arrival of dawn, or the lessening of the chill in the air that permeated his flat. Silence hung heavily in the rooms he used to share with Dr Watson; the other man's absence was annoying and glaringly obvious.

Despite his "death" two years prior, Sherlock felt like no time had elapsed at all since his return to 221 B Baker Street. Papers, case files, and half finished experiments lay exactly where he had left them. A thick layer of dust still clung to random surfaces throughout the flat, missed by Mrs Hudson on her sporadic cleaning missions.

A short week had passed since his rather emotional and anticlimactic return to London, and the life he left behind. As eager to see John as he had been, Sherlock had badly miscalculated the effect his return would have on his former friend and flatmate. Former seemed to be the correct word now to describe John; his refusal to accept Sherlock's return and the inherent betrayal it carried was beyond his current limits. For betrayal it was. Hindsight making his judgment clearer, Sherlock knew that his lack of trust in John's silence after he faked his death was indeed a betrayal to the very loyal doctor. For all that he needed John's grief to be real in order to convince the world that he really was dead, not contacting him sooner had been a grave mistake.

Mycroft had been right to scoff at Sherlock's expectations. John was not willing to leap back into the game. So unwilling was he that John's very hard head had damn near broken his nose. Sherlock reflexively twinged at the memory, so clear was the recollection. One of the few drawbacks to having an excellent memory bulwarked by a mind-palace was that the painful memories were as clear as the good ones. In the last two years, Sherlock had held on tightly to his memories of John Watson. John smiling, laughing; the relaxed slouch of his shoulders under an astoundingly atrocious Christmas jumper as he sat in his chair. One memory held in perfect clarity was of John holding the Czech assassin Golem at gunpoint, threatening his life if he harmed his partner. A face full of calm menace and steely resolve hovered at the edges of Sherlock's mind as the mere mention summoned it from the depths.

Sherlock sighed, the small sound escaping before he could stop it.

_ "You're becoming positively maudlin, old man! Snap out of it and focus!"_ he thought to himself sternly. "_You were a capable detective for half a decade before John Watson walked into the pathology lab at St Bart's- and you can damn well continue on without him!"_

Sherlock had retired his previous career as a consulting detective to become something far more sinister during his forced sabbatical two year earlier. He had become a spy, an infiltrator, smuggler, and occasional hit man as the situation demanded. He created multiple roles while he traversed the breadth and depth of Europe rooting out Moriarty's crime syndicate. Disappearing into the many personas he developed for the hunt, Sherlock had turned his formidable skills to finding every last remnant. Each discovery of an operative had lead to either a swift arrest, or an even quicker death- at the hands of Mycroft's people, or as a result of Sherlock himself stepping in. He had let himself fade away to the barest, leanest version of himself - an elemental force of deadly efficiency and ruthless, cold detachment. For days, up to weeks at a time, he would become what was needed to complete the mission: the grifter, the con man, a drunken smuggler, and even a nameless, brutal, high ranking disciple of Moriarty. Only once a mission was complete, and in the brief span of time traveling from one dreary city to another to start a new mission, did Sherlock emerge as himself again.

Alone, exhausted, and resolutely determined to succeed, Sherlock would find respite in the depths of his mind palace, and the memories within. He had spent he entirety of his life building his mind palace, so much so that it bore no relation anymore to that moniker. Many practitioners in the art of "mind building" limited themselves to a room, a house, a foolishly opulent mansion. Sherlock had endeavored to build London itself. There he would tread the unswept floors of his flat, hear the bustle of London's streets as he walked Trafalagr Square; pace the chilly halls of St Bart's. The Underground in all its complexities, the ancient streets and alleys, from St James' Palace to Westminster, the Thames to the sea; all a part of the underwhelming named palace within his mind. Each street, home, room, office; all of it held a memory, a recollection, fact, scent, sound. Everything Sherlock deemed important and worth keeping was stored safely away- forever.

On the rare occasion a room became full, or a shelf too cluttered, would Sherlock either delete a memory, or far more likely, expand. With a tensely orchestrated shuffle of mental blueprints, a new room or surface would spontaneously appear where needed. All he needed to do was walk the path to that new place but once, and he would never forget his way back. Once Sherlock stored something, it was there to stay.

His city was not empty- it was filled with moments frozen in time, people stilled to an instant of crucial importance, like a single note held at the sound of perfection. Those memories and moments lined the streets, the rooms and places of their relative origins; Molly stood in the lonesome morgue at St Bart's, Lestrade sat still at his desk at Scotland Yard, even Mrs Hudson at her sink, washing dishes.

Here too was the exception to his rigid control- John Watson. Everywhere Sherlock went, the spectre of John followed. John was with him every step- in his chair at the flat, John standing at the door of a cab waiting on him; John by his side as they raced through London's streets.

It would be to these stilled moments Sherlock retreated to the most. Mind spinning, thoughts without anchor or purpose would drive him to the edge of control. Sherlock would find that voice- John's voice. That voice that would calm his racing heart and mind, focus his genius and push him farther than he had ever gotten on his own. Sherlock would settle his restless soul into the mental facsimile of his green leather chair before the hearth, and watch as John would read his papers. His bare feet crossed and tucked close to the chair, his head buried in the Guardian, and humming quietly to himself as he came across something interesting. Many times Sherlock had oiled his bow strings, or tuned his violin, or even just steepled his fingers under his chin and unabashedly contemplated the wonder that was John Watson.

At times John would point out something he found interesting, and Sherlock would lock away the sound of his voice. A gentle sound that even when frustrated or annoyed never lost that quality Sherlock had come to define as kindness. John Watson was a kind man, unapologetically loyal, and brave beyond expectation. Quickly after that first case with the serial killer cabbie he had known the full measure of John's character. John was, to Sherlock, the only truly good man he had ever met. Or would ever met again.

He rested in the sunlight, remembering.


	2. Chapter 2 Mary

** Chapter Two **

** "Mary"**

Mary stood in the door of the bathroom, throwing her brilliantly red coat over her shoulders. Her gaze was drawn to the man rinsing his face in the sink.

"I'm off to work love, see you there?" she queried softly.

"Hmm?" John relied, his face covered by a hand towel.

"I'll see you there? The office?"

"Oh yeah. I'll be along in a bit. I've got an errand to run before my first appointment." he replied slowly, taking extra care to drape the damp towel neatly along its rack.

Mary knew that tone of his- the sound of his voice that meant he had a lot on his mind. She knew her doctor well, and the deliberate way he moved, his intense expression let her know his "errand" was much more than that, and weighed heavily upon him.

The last few months John's attitude had been steadily improving. He had stopped pretending to be okay, and had begun to truly be alright. The crippling pain at his partner's apparent suicide had finally begun to lessen its grip on his life. Mary knew she could only take credit for some of his improvement. John's own natural resiliency had begun to put him back to rights.

Having met him almost ten months ago at his new offices had been one of the best days of her life. She had known instinctively that Dr Watson was broken, hemorraghing inside and he needed to have his life saved. He had made the bare efforts of existing- washing, dressing, walking to work, going through his appointments methodically but without any expression of emotion. Work, home, sleep, repeat.

After of few weeks of working with him, Mary had made the the decision to ask him out. John had just stood there, as if he had forgotten that people still did things like that, going on dates. His expression had been blank, and she had to repeat herself. To her surpise, John had shook his head as if to clear it, and then, even more surprisingly, had said yes.

A quiet night out at a nearly empty pub had been less of date and more of therapy session. Mary knew very well John's past with the late Sherlock Holmes, as their escapades the year before had been hard to miss. Even Mary had grieved when she heard that Holmes had committed suicide by falling from the roof at St Bart's. Hearing the story directly from someone who had lived it was heart wrenching, and the strength of the man she sat with was dazzling. She spent the night teaching John how to have a conversation again- he hadn't felt the need or the desire to really talk to anyone in a long time. By the end of that night, and after several empty pints, Mary was satisfied that the real John was still alive, buried under the trauma of Sherlock's death. One day he would find himself again, and she wanted to be with him every step of the way.

"Ok love. I'll see you there," Mary told John, walking over to kiss him gently on the forehead before leaving. Since his dramatic return the week earlier, Sherlock had alot to answer for, and she knew John was in the mindset to make him pay for it. She knew exactly where he was going, and she hoped for everyones' sake that both men would be able to survive what was coming and still be whole on the other side.

John stood next to his dresser, and with a deep sigh reached for his clothes. He had a ghost to confront, and putting it off would only make it harder.


	3. Chapter 3 Shattered

**Chapter Three**

** "Shattered"**

"Sherlock, wooh-hoo! Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson called softly, lightly rapping her knuckles on the opened door. "Are you going to stand there all morning, or should I make you a cuppa?"

Sherlock still stood in the same spot he had occupied since before dawn, facing his puzzle on the wall. He snapped back from the depths of his palace, and focused dry eyes on his landlady. apparently he hadn't been blinking while away, and from the stiffness he felt all over, he hadn't moved either.

"Ah, Mrs Hudson. A cup of tea would be sufficient, as long as some biscuits accompany it." he said coldly, yet with his customary wink softening his reply. Mrs Hudson smiled fondly at him before retreating back down the stairs to her flat.

Sherlock stretched, raising his arms high above his head, and bouncing lightly on his feet to wake himself up. He'd never act this silly with company, but as Mrs Hudson wouldn't be back for several minutes, he felt free to shake out his muscles and chase the wayward thoughts from his mind. He quickly ceased his antics as deep spasms of pain radiated from the deep bruises and cracked ribs he had received from the brutal Serbian enforcer two weeks past. His wounds had yet to fully heal, and he had quite typically forgotten about his injuries, and only when he moved carelessly was he reminded.

He was pleased that he'd retained enough of his wits to distract his abuser before the iron pipe had been brought into play. Impatient with his brother's obvious lack of concern, Sherlock had let spill the secret of the adulterous Serbian housewife, which was enough of a catalyst to get the brute out of the room and way from his aching torso. He had managed to get himself out of harm's way without lifting a finger. Mycroft had thought he was clever, sneaking into the compound the way he had. What was really clever was waiting for news of his completed final mission absorb up the food chain of his brother's organization, staging a break in, and running just to get caught. Knowing a beating was standard, and that his brother would never impersonate someone low on the criminal hierarchy, he knew Mycroft would be in that room too. He had just overestimated his brother's concern for his welfare. The tacit endorsement of the enforcer's beating to such a degree was something of a surprise. He knew Mycroft's perverse sense of humor could be inconvenient, especially to Sherlock, but he still grew annoyed when thinking back to the day of his "rescue". His still sore muscles and the partially healed ribs wouldn't let him forget either.

The sound of a cab drawing up to the curb distracted him from mentally berating Mycroft further. Sherlock wasn't expecting his brother for another hour. Mycroft was never early. Late, often; early, never.

_"A client?"_ thought Sherlock, his blood stirring at the thought of a new case to divert his frustration from the one weighing down his wall. He went to the window, but whoever it was was already inside and closing the inner door. The bell hadn't been rung, and there had been no knock either, so who was it? Mycroft never waltzed in during the day, he delighted in being annoying and making Sherlock or Mrs Hudson open the door. Whoever it was had a key...

_"Whoever it is has a key...!"_, he screamed inside his head. If it was possible for Sherlock Holmes to freak out, he did in the nanosecond it took him to realize who was slowly coming up the stairs to his flat. _"Am I dressed, where's my socks?! No socks, wearing my robe, do I smell? When did I last take a shower?! Dammit man focus he's here!"_

"Ah, John. Do come in. Mrs Hudson just went for tea, I'm certain we can arrange a cup for you as well." Sherlock was impressed and proud that his voice was so calm, as if the last two years, two weeks, and one well aimed head butt hadn't occurred.

Sherlock turned to the doorway, where his recent mental obsession was carefully removing his gloves. He nervously glanced at John's hands, wondering if a repeat of last week was about to happen. He'd take his punches, but the nose was off limits and he would defend it. Sherlock was again glad of his emotional control, as the sight of John was enough to make his heart leap in his chest.

_"Freshly shaven, no mustache thank GOD!- dark clothes picked out carefully, tense shoulders, circles under his eyes...he hasn't slept. Why hasn't he slept?"_ he ran through his observations almost idly from habit, _" leaner, more muscles, staying healthy for Mary, regular office hours but no sleep..."_

John cleared his throat, "No tea thanks, I'll have some at the office. Just came by to...yeah...I came by to talk...", his voice trailed off into nothingness, his eyes skating around the room, from the case on the wall, to the lovingly maintained violin perched up like a person on Sherlock's chair. Everywhere but at the man he'd come to see.

Sherlock risked a step closer. "John, come in, have a seat?" he was within touching distance now, and with all his self control he withstood the urge to reach out and just feel him- feel the body heat and strength that separated a cold memory from the reality of his beloved doctor. His fingers twitched, and it was the only betrayal of his current state he would allow.

John couldn't avoid him anymore, he was too close. His eyes drifted over the tall, leanly muscled frame of the man he'd thought so long dead. Over a head taller than himself, John had to tip his head back just to see the detective's face. He looked into the most brilliantly beautiful eyes he had ever seen. A miraculous blend of blue, green, and true, real gold combined into eyes that were literally breathtaking. Eyes that could, and did, convey a myriad of thoughts and emotions so clearly to anyone who knew the younger man well. Skin still palest white, a faint, vague hint of freckles, and a wild crown of gorgeous, untamable curls graced the head of the most intelligent human he'd ever met.

It was like a punch in the gut, looking into those eyes. John's righteous anger was swept aside by a tidal wave of joy, grief, and disbelief. Awe and an unnamable emotion flooded through him, as if electricity was building a charge under his skin. His thoughts and carefully chosen words vanished beneath this sensation, and he swayed slightly forward, buoyed by what he was feeling. His heart started to beat faster, his senses narrowed down to just those eyes. The younger man was so close he could smell the oil he used on the violin bow, the soap from some distant shower. His own eyes began to water, so long did he gaze at this man. The man Fate had cruelly taken away, and then so capriciously tossed back. John struggled for words, any words to free him from this moment that he felt like he was drowning in.

"John?" came that voice; deep, melodic, beautiful. A voice of commanding strength, that could express everything from cold detachment to violent fury with a clarity unmatched by any other voice John had ever heard. He shivered, and he found himself a step closer to Sherlock, a step so close he could lift his hand and place it on the detective's chest.

Which he had! John felt the heat, the lean strength beneath the flat of his hand. Sherlock's heart beat strongly under his palm, hard and tempo increasing. John stared at his hand, stretching out his fingers and gently pressing the tips deeper into Sherlock's night shirt.

"John...", This time it was a whisper, as Sherlock breathed in the presence of this person he held so dear. He lowered his head, til his curls lightly brushed against the forehead of the other man. They both breathed in again, together. Held it, as gentle tension slowed time and bound them closer. Only the pressure of John's fingers on his chest grounded Sherlock, as his control shattered and his emotions escaped. Tears gathered, then gently began to fall down his pale cheeks, to match the rainstorm brewing in his heart.

A single tear fell from Sherlock's chin, and landed on John's wrist. John stared at it, lost as how that crystalline drop had gotten there. He lifted his eyes from his hand, and saw the impossible.

Sherlock Holmes, the most cynical, detached, ruthless and emotionless man John had ever known, was weeping. Silent, and almost helplessly, he cried. Heavenly eyes overflowed, tears winding down the strong planes of his face to fall unnoticed to the floor. It was if he didn't notice his own state so focused was he on the doctor.

John's other hand lifted from his side, without prompting. He laid it against Sherlock's cheek, cupping him closer, letting the taller man's forehead rest fully against his own. The hand he held to the other's heart flowed up his shoulder, along his neck to gently hold Sherlock's face between his palms.

"Sherlock...shhhhuusshh now, Sherlock sherlock sherlock-" his name became a litany of everything he had no words to convey to the shattered man before him.

His name seemed to be the release valve, for what was likened to a rainstorm was now a torrent. Voiceless sobs shook the taller man, tears a river unstoppable in the flood of all that he'd been repressing. His control wiped away, pride gone, Sherlock was left bare before John Watson.

"Oh God, Sherlock... breathe, just breathe!... I'm sorry I didn't want the tea, I'll have some. C'mon Sherlock, sshhhhh...it's okay now, I swear it's okay now!" words that echoed from a distant moment, said once by the man he now held weeping to his shoulder.

Gently he guided Sherlock to the couch, callously brushing stacks of paper to the floor. There he sat Sherlock down, the younger man unaware he'd even been moved. His hands gripped tightly to John and refused to let go. The older man sat next to him, and at loss, he gathered the lanky detective to his chest. To his surprise Sherlock turned into him, curling up like the child John was certain he had never been allowed to be. Arms wrapping tightly around John's neck and shoulders, Sherlock buried his face into the crook of the other man's neck and continued to cry. His knees drew up into the back of the couch, his feet tucking into the spaces between the seats. There he wept, quiet and desperate. He wept like he had never learned how; ragged, tortured breaths, face scrunched up tight, red and splotchy and frankly a bloody mess. Sherlock Holmes wept like a man freed from Hell and fearing to return.

This was not how John had expected this conversation to go. Fully intent on saying his piece, and maybe even hearing Sherlock's side of things, John knew that he was a fool for believing anything with Sherlock would be so easy. Though this explosion of emotion was so far removed from expectation that he relied instead on instinct. He did what his healer's heart told him- he held firmly to the shaking form in his arms, murmuring nonsense words of comfort. It was if Sherlock had shattered. One moment his control perfect, then the next it was torn asunder. John had the feeling that his one gentle touch, instead of the punches he had thrown last week, was what did it. So strong was the need to care for his detective - yes, his detective - that his own emotions quieted into the background of his heart.

Sherlock was caught up in the maelstrom, unaware and uncaring of where he was. He held tightly to John, a lifeline in the nightmare of emotions he was drowning in. The smaller man was stronger than he looked, his resolve unwavering. Sherlock wept out twenty four months worth of stress, fear, loneliness and loss. John's patient shoulders bore it all. Sherlock hadn't know to what depth he was capable of feeling, and he was afraid he might never return to the man he was before his Fall.

Gradually, Sherlock's sobs began to lessen, the tides receding. Exhausted, spent, he cried his last tears onto John's now wet jacket. He was beyond tired, and he had never felt so empty. The warmth of the man who held him stole into the emptiness, and lulled him into a slumber he sorely needed.

So there was John Watson, late for work, sitting on the couch of the greatest mind alive, holding said man as he wept, and now slept, on top of him. He felt no urge to move, and knew Mary would rearrange his schedule without asking. Smart woman, was Mary. It was in this position that Mrs Hudson found them, holding the tea tray next to the coffee table. She had a silly grin on her face as she lightly settled the tea service on the table before leaving as quietly as she had come in. John laughed quietly, knowing it was entirely possible that the rumors were about to get much worse than they had ever been.


	4. Chapter 4 Mycroft

**Chapter Four **

**"Mycroft"**

Mycroft Holmes stood in the doorway of his little brother's flat, eyeing the men intangled on the couch. For once, he was actually at a loss for words. This scene explained the pained look Mrs Hudson had given him before waving him up the stairs. It was obvious something significant had happened. Mycroft was certain his brother hadn't been held like that since he was a child barely out of infancy. He was equally certain that Sherlock wasn't up to discussing the terrorist plot he'd been resurrected to deal with. He was in fact sound asleep in the arms of John Watson. The doctor was awake, his face a study in conflicting emotions and thoughts. Confusion and grief were evident, and anger hovered about his shoulders and mouth. Mycroft was confused as to why Dr Watson would be cuddling with Sherlock if he was mad at him, until he caught the doctor's gaze and realized the anger was directed at him. Surprise briefly moved the elder Holmes, and he broke eye contact to look about the room. The sensation of having Dr John Watson mad at him was somewhat unnerving. Dr Watson had been enraged at Mycroft before, but this anger was entirely new in its intensity. Mycroft had a hunch that it had to do with Sherlock's two year absence from Watson's life- and that the blame was being firmly placed on his shoulders. He looked again at the man who held his brother so protectively, and smiled slightly.

"As he seems to be otherwise 'engaged'", Mycroft stated softly, "do tell my brother when he awakens that I shall return in an hour. It's early enough yet for our appoinment."

John didn't reply, just bent his head in the direction of the door with a look on his face that clearly left no doubt that he wanted the elder Holmes gone. Mycroft turned and slipped quietly down the stairs. He pulled out his mobile and began typing.

** Anthea, dear, please draw the car around. We shall be returning to Baker Street in an hour. Find us a suitable place to eat in this dreadful part of town, will you? -MH**


	5. Chapter 5 John

**Chapter Five**

**"John"**

John was loath to admit it, but his arms were beginning to tire. The man he held was so deeply asleep he was absolutely limp, drooping in his lap. The dead weight of the younger man was oddly appealing though. John's legs were falling asleep, and his arms were starting to strain from holding Sherlock up, but he didn't care. Sherlock was in a state John hadn't seen him in before (while sober); naturally asleep and starting to snore. Little wisps of air kept fluttering on John's neck, tickling. He leaned his head forward a couple of degrees, his lips against Sherlock's warm neck, and breathed the smell of him in. It filled his lungs, burning him in an electric current to the tips of his toes.

"_How is this real? He was dead, I saw him die. Smelled the blood in the cold wet air, felt the limpness of his arm muscles. Sherlock was dead. My world stopped. He was gone, and now he's here. I'm holding him. There was a hole in my life when he was gone. And now" _John's thoughts were racing, spiraling. Caught in a loop between disbelief that he had Sherlock back, the man he held proof positive it wasn't a dream and the thought that he had no clue what to do next. His life had been on a new path, one he chose whole heartedly. He made the decision to pull himself out of the misery, pain and horror, and to try being a person again. To try to be himself again. It had been hard, almost as hard as the first few weeks after the Fall. Those weeks after Sherlock had left was nothing but a nightmare blur of indistinct memories. The funeral was the one thing he remembered clearly, and the plea he'd made to his best friend's grave. He had been ready to sell his soul, make any bargain, to have Sherlock back.

His grief had been too much to bear- he let his body keep him alive in the early days. Muscle memory of how to eat, sleep, get dressed all had been habit, and he let his mind and heart disengage. Let his body take over. He was just a passenger, uninterested in anything but breathing through the pain. Living was exhausting, and he couldn't remember how to exist without Sherlock Holmes.

He remembered one day the crushing immobility he had suffered walking up the stairs of 221B. It had caught him on the landing, and he was stuck. He couldn't go forward up the stairs, he couldn't make his legs move. The flat above was quiet, empty. Sherlock wasn't there, he would never be there again. His hands had begun to shake, and sweat broke out all over his body. His experience told him it was a panic attack, but he could do nothing to stop it. It was an epiphany of horrible consequence Sherlock was dead and he would never, ever be coming back. And so John Watson broke, like lightning splitting a tree he was ripped apart by forces he couldn't control. He had no idea how long he had stood there before he came back to his senses kneeling on the landing, stinking of sweat and fear. His mind was clear, he felt expunged of grief and despair. He knew it was still there, but his mind was free enough to realize that he had to leave. He couldn't stay here and survive. So he slowly, carefully pulled himself back together, and went to speak to Mrs. Hudson.

John snapped back from his memories. Dwelling on the bad times wasn't healthy. And now his universe was changed again. Sherlock Holmes was alive. Alive and in his arms. His Sherlock. His Sherlock.

John wondered at his willingness to hold Sherlock the way he was. The two of them had never been overly demonstrative, but neither had withdrawn from the occasional contact. Surprisingly enough, Sherlock had always been the one to initiate contact by grabbing his face and spinning him in circles, touching his shoulder or back to guide him through the dark chasing after baddies. For a man who claimed to abhor needing people, he would reach out and touch John without hesitation. As if he hadn't thought at all that John would mind. John had often wondered if Sherlock even noticed he was doing it. Casual touches, fingers skimming along his arm or the back of his hand. Standing so very close, eyes intent and focused on John's. John hadn't even noticed that he didn't mind! He hadn't noticed how he would orient himself in a room to always be in line of sight of Sherlock. How he would change his stance to keep himself between Sherlock and potential danger, or even how he would stand by Sherlock's side when confronted by angry suspects or idiotic police women. John had never noticed while Sherlock was still alive; after his death John had poured over his memories, and seen the truth. That when the rumors started about the two of them being an item, they had merely reflected the truth people were seeing in how Sherlock and John interacted together. In every sense of the word they had been a couple; full of unrealized potential. It had made John angry when he looked back at their time together angry that he hadn't seen how he was feeling, and angry that he didn't know what he would have done about it. John wasn't lying when he said he wasn't gay he had never been attracted to men before in his life. And then he had laughed at himself Sherlock Holmes was less of a man and more superhuman. Sherlock was so beyond the Commonality of Man that John didn't even think sexuality would stop how he felt about Sherlock. He knew he never noticed how other men looked, and that he was still attracted to women.

John shifted in the seat, his legs now fully asleep and tingling. His absence from work would be inexcusable if he stayed here any longer, and he wouldn't put it past Mycroft to get impatient and come back early. He didn't think that being in the same room as Mycroft Holmes was a good idea right now; he may not still be enraged as he had been at Sherlock, but he had no trouble staying mad at Mycroft Holmes. He knew that Mycroft would have talked Sherlock out of contacting him while he was gone, by spouting out that nonsense of "don't get involved". John gently lifted and twisted himself out from beneath the younger Holmes, laying him down on the couch cushions. He grabbed the blanket that still graced the back of his red armchair, and tossed it over the slumbering detective. Sherlock didn't even stir, so out was he.

John spied Sherlock's phone on the coffee table, and picked it up. He slid the screen open, and opened up a new text draft.

** Mycroft will be here soon. -JW**

Not knowing what else to say, he flipped screens to set up an alarm to go off 20 minutes from now. He figured that would give Sherlock time to compose himself before his brother came back. He went back to the text draft and put the mobile back down next to the tea. He would've written a note, but doing so in the apartment with Mycroft Holmes due to return was not a good idea. Rather not have Mycroft sniping at Sherlock about "love notes". Having found them together like Mycroft had was bad enough.

John took one last look around the flat he had once called home, finding that he still missed it. Now that Sherlock was back, the grief was dissipating, but hurt and confusion was taking its place. He felt like he was being pulled in two directions - to Mary and the future he had planned, and to this chaotic, exhilarating life with the man who slept before him. So strong was the urge to stay that John grew alarmed.

Feeling like he was skipping out early on a one night stand, John quickly turned and all but ran down the steps and out the front doors. Feeling like a coward, he hailed the first cab he saw. Giving the cabbie directions to his offices, he refused to look behind him at 221B. He may have removed himself from the flat, but he knew where his mind was going to be focused all day. He knew he wouldn't be able to stop thinking about his detective.


	6. Chapter 6 Sherlock

**Chapter Six**

**"Sherlock"**

_Where the bloody hell am I? What is that dreadful noise?! _Sherlock had no idea what was going on, but whoever was making that wretched noise was going to find themselves realigning their various broken body parts after he got through with them...

"SHUT UP!" Sherlock sat up violently, trapped in the confines of a blanket he had no recollection of wrapping himself up in. He promptly found himself on his arse caught between the couch and the coffee table. His mind a mess of incoherent thoughts, his eyes sore from weeping, Sherlock was at a complete loss for what was going on or why his mobile was screaming at him. And indeed it was his mobile, vibrating and screeching loud enough to wake the dead, or atleast one very tired detective. Slamming his hand down on it, he resisted the urge to toss it across the room and slid it open instead. Silencing the wretched noise, he caught himself staring at an open text message.

**Mycroft will be here soon. -JW**

How did John know that? And of course John wouldn't wake him before he left, annoyingly considerate was that man. Sherlock deleted the draft and dropped his phone back down next to the very cold tea service. Nevermind Sherlock wanted to talk to him. Or even just be in the same room as him, maybe awake this time and not crying like an infant. It took less than a second, but Sherlock realised that the only way for John to know that Mycroft was coming was if he had already been there, seen the unexplainable, and then left. _I'll just have to pretend that I don't know he was here and hope he does the same..._

Banging his head briefly on the coffee table, Sherlock stood up, not caring that the blanket fell to the not so clean floor. Stepping out of the mess, he dragged his feet on the way down the hall to the bathroom. _How did John leave without me knowing? Was I really that badly off? I must have been, to start bawling like that. Oh bloody hell, I spent the entire morning crying on John Watson. He'll never let me live that down...or he wouldn't if he were coming back. Is he coming back? Snap out of it, Mycroft's coming back..._

Sherlock threw open the door to the bathroom, threw the water on full blast in the shower, jumped in, and only remembered to take off his night clothes when he noticed his robe clogging the drain. Throwing the wet clothing to the floor, Sherlock rested his hands on the shower wall and just let the water rinse away any remaining angst from his emotional storm destroyed morning.

Sherlock didn't know how long he stood there in the shower, but it was long enough for the water to run cold and his equilibrium to return. Grabbing each errant thought and stray emotion, he studied it, put it in its proper place, or tossed it away to be forgotten. When he got to the explosion that had happened in John's arms, he knew he didn't know how to handle what had happened that morning at all. The entire incident had just gutted him. Sherlock pondered the implications as he stepped out of the shower and sporadically dried himself off. Having no experience whatsoever with handling crying people (in a nice way, not the trick you into revealing your nefarious plan to fake your husband's death way), he didn't even know where to start when he was the one crying!

Trying to figure out someone else's emotions was hard enough, and he rarely spared an effort unless it was someone he cared about. He recognized the irony; he didn't care about people unless it was people he cared about, and even then he denied caring at all if called out on it. John and Molly were the exceptions. John was so deeply buried into the depths of his being that Sherlock knew he couldn't focus if his doctor was unhappy. Molly had surprised Sherlock to his core. She had so blithely tossed out that she didn't count, it had shocked him. How could she believe that? She was smart, kind, and she never shied away from helping him. Sure he didn't deny using her attraction to him to get what he wanted sometimes. He was cold-hearted enough to realise that she wanted him, but he couldn't be what she needed. So he kept being himself, cold and distant but never straying towards cruel. The one time he had overstepped, Sherlock had about smacked himself. The look on her face and the defeated sound to her voice as she called him on it had finally caught his attention, and his regret. The apology he had given her was honest, and as heartfelt as he was capable of being. Sherlock still felt the sting when thinking back to that moment, and he had tried to tell Molly how much she mattered to him the night before he Fell. She had done the miraculous, pulling together the pieces of his plan that had allowed him to walk away from his confrontation with Moriarty. Without Molly, it's entirely possible that he wouldn't have made it, and that John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson would be dead. So Molly mattered, she mattered very much. He just needed some way to tell her that.

His future relationship with John may be fraught yet with the unknown, but Sherlock had an idea of how to thank the very important Miss Hooper. But first to deal with Mycroft and his impatience.


	7. Chapter 7 The Fire Inside

**Chapter Seven**

**"The Fire inside"**

The fire was still raging behind them, too close to John's boots for Sherlock's comfort. Grabbing the doctor under his arms, Sherlock half lifted, half pulled John farther from the flames. The crowd parted around them, people crying out in concern and trying to see what was going on. He ignored them all, his only concern being the man lying on the damp ground. Terror and anger burst inside his heart, burning like the fire in the square. John seemed to be drugged, blinking slowly, incoherent words coming out of his mouth. Mary huddled on the other side of John, urgently calling his name. Blood was running from several cuts from around his hairline, the most severe the one by his right ear. Mary had a handkerchief out, and she was holding pressure on the wounds.

"Sherlock, I want to call emergency, is it safe? Are they still here?" Mary asked, never taking her eyes off John's face. He knew instantly who she was referring too- the people responsible for taking John. Sherlock looked up, searching the crowd. He was impressed; most women would be screaming, crying and generally getting in the way. Not thinking about potential threats sneaking up on them while their focus was on John.

"I don't see anyone acting unusual- if they were still here there's too many people around for them to risk anything. Don't call emergency- I'm getting Lestrade. He'll send what we need." Sherlock pulled out his mobile and hit Lestrade's speed dial. Sherlock had no doubt that several people in the crowd had already called emergency, he wanted Lestrade and his team, not the entire idiotic force showing up, getting in the way.

Lestrade answered amazingly fast for him- _seems he really was happy to see me, used to be it would have to ring out for almost a minute before he answered-_ Sherlock didn't give him a chance to even say hello.

"Lestrade, we need you now. John's been kidnapped, and almost burned to death at the fireworks party at St James the Lesser. Yes, the church. Hurry, send an ambulance and some slightly intelligent people. And call off the calvary- several people have already phoned, we don't need the whole world here messing things up." Sherlock ended the call. His eyes kept sweeping the people crowded around them, and he hated being closed in. "Mary, get them back- I've got John." Sherlock knew if he tried moving the strangers away he'd be unable to restrain his fury, so mad was he. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, and his anger was like a wild thing, crashing inside his head and making his teeth clench.

Sherlock was struck by how well Mary handled herself; without hesitation she pressed the handkerchief into Sherlock's hand, stood up, and in her light, charming voice began to ask people to give them room. She kept herself facing the opposite direction Sherlock was-between them they could see both sides of the square. Sherlock processed everything, filing it away for later. Sherlock didn't care at the moment about her resiliency; John had the majority of his focus. Part of him felt the lessening of the crowd at his back- sirens were approaching in the distance and a slight rain had begun to fall. Sherlock worked his arm under John, lifted him up and pulled him back against his chest, holding him tightly. He put the cloth back to the cuts, and put his head next to John's. John was coming around, his eyes were beginning to get some intelligence back in them. He was cold, his temperature lowered by the drugs and laying on the cold, damp ground. He shivered and Sherlock drew him closer.

"John, can you hear me? You're alright now, we got you out. I'm here, we're both here," he said quietly into John's ear, trying as hard as he could to sound calm and in control. The rain began to fall harder, but the trees in the square blocked most of the wet, cold breeze. Sherlock was lucky he'd still been wearing his jacket and scarf when Mary had come crashing into 221B. He wouldn't have waited to put anything back on, so quickly did he and Mary run out of the building. His gloves had borne the brunt of the fire's fury, he knew the leather was scorched through in some places, but he didn't care. He could still use his fingers.

"Sherlock?... what happened...went back to your place...where am I?" John struggled to look around, and Sherlock hitched him up alittle higher. His head rested back on Sherlock's shoulder, and he was able to see clearly enough around him. He lifted his right arm, hesitantly at first, and then very carefully, wrapped his fingers tightly to Sherlock's wrist, of the arm holding him so firmly. He squeezed, and didn't let go. Sherlock hugged him tighter in response.

Mary was back, kneeling in front them, her hands on John's face. She had a torch from somewhere, and was checking John's eyes, the cuts on his face. "It doesn't look too bad darling, seems the worst of it may be whatever they drugged you with. I don't see any burn marks that are too bad, thankfully your clothes seemed to have shielded you from the flames. The paramedics are coming over dear, let them have a look at you."

Three men in emergency uniforms were racing over, and Sherlock saw Lestrade not too far behind. Several police cars were there already, officers pouring out and mingling with the crowd around them. Everyone was talking and shouting- Sherlock ignored it all and made eye contact with Lestrade across the distance. Lestrade began roping his people into order, making them pull the spectators away and starting interviews. "Let no one leave until we get statements, they're all witnesses!"

"Sherlock, let them at John now dear. It's ok, they'll take care of him. Sherlock-" Mary was speaking to him he realized, not unkindly. She seemed to know that he didn't want to let go of John, and she didn't mind one bit. Sherlock nodded tensely. The paramedics held back, seeming to understand that Sherlock was not quite himself-his face probably gave evidence of his current state. He briefly tightened his grip, and John squeezed his wrist one last time. "Alright, he's all yours-" and Sherlock let the paramedics take over, his knees protesting at finally being able to move. Sherlock stood and went to Lestrade, positioning himself to keep John in view at all times. The medics swarmed over him, asking him ridiculous questions and poking at him. John had managed to stay sitting up after Sherlock let him go, and he was responding easier.

"What the hell happened, Sherlock? John was kidnapped? What was that about a fire?" Lestrade asked, his hands on his hips and eyes darting around the square. He was pale, and Sherlock noticed he was out of breath. _I do believe the detective broke all speed laws getting here! Good for him!_

"I got home moments before Mary came over- she had received a text from an anonymous source that revealed in skip code that John had been taken. He was in immediate danger- I got us here within ten minutes, and figured out at about the same time it was lit that the kidnappers had stuffed him into the bonfire. I pulled him out, and called you. Whether they were still here or not after they put him in there is debatable- personally, I would have left as soon as possible." Sherlock said, his eyes still cataloging the scene around him. Some of the spectators were gone- the number of people remaining didn't match up with the amount that had been present when he had charged into the square. He suspected that the kidnappers were indeed gone- the police were wasting their time. But he held his tongue and looked to Lestrade.

"What in the world is a skip code? Bloody hell man, you're back a week and already the world goes insane! And how did you get here so fast? That's a twenty minute drive! Did you bribe the cabbie?"

Lestrade seemed at a loss, dumbfounded by the fact that the entire evening wasn't some cosmic joke. Sherlock just smirked, a tiny smile on his lips. "I have my ways, Detective Inspector."

* * *

><p>John could smell nothing but smoke, his throat burning. His eyes stung, and for some reason his face was bleeding. He kept wanting to shake his head to clear it from the fog it was in, but the annoying man pointing the light in his face kept telling him to hold still. Mary was kneeling by his side, and he had no idea where he was or why she was there. All he knew for certain was that Sherlock had saved him. He had been surrounded by fire, unable to call for help or even breathe- and Sherlock had torn through that wall of fire like an avenging angel and pulled him free. His arms had held him, given him an anchor to fight free of the drugs he'd been pumped full of. Then the medics had arrived, and shooed Sherlock off. John looked past the people kneeling around him, and his gaze found the one he wanted standing not to far away.<p>

Sherlock stood with Lestrade, out of hearing but close enough for John to know they were talking about him. Sherlock would look away to scan the square, but his eyes would come back to rest on John as the paramedics and Mary fussed over him. Sherlock noticed John staring at him, and in a moment so quick that no one else seemed to catch it but him, looked him straight in the eyes and winked. John coughed, his cheeks warming slightly. He felt a frisson of heat travel up his spine, and his mind seemed to clear even more. He would've sworn Sherlock grinned before he turned his attention back to Lestrade. John coughed some more, his whole body shaking. His lungs were clearing, and he could feel his hands and toes again.

"Mary? What happened? How did you get here?" John turned to Mary, struggling to figure out why he had almost been burned alive.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Mary asked, as the paramedics took his vitals. John was starting to get annoyed- he knew he was fine. At the rate he was recovering his wits, he was fairly certain he knew what he had been dosed with, and there wouldn't be any side effects other than some nausea and a slight headache.

"I was outside Sherlock's flat on the street when this arse bumped into me- then I felt a sharp pain in my neck, and hands holding me down. After that, nothing. I came to inside that woodpile- I could hardly move, and I couldn't scream for help. Next thing I know, there's fire all around me. I thought I was going to die- until Sherlock-" John stopped, short of breath. Lestrade had wandered over as John was explaining. Sherlock stayed where he was, still looking at John. John would occasionally catch his eye, but the cockiness Sherlock had displayed earlier seemed to be gone. Now he just looked ...inhuman. His collar was popped up, coat buttoned tight. His face resembled cut marble, all smooth planes and hard edges. John swallowed nervously. He knew that look- someone was going to die.

"You ok then John? Going to the hospital?" Lestrade asked. One of the medics opened his mouth to speak, but John cut him off.

"I'm fine. Seriously, I'll be ok. Nothing broken, just some scrapes and some superficial burns. Help me up, I need to get off this wet dirt, it's driving me insane." John started to stand, and about a dozen hands seemed to reach out to help him up. Mary grabbed his elbow, and John stood warily, waiting to see if he found himself back on the ground. He turned to Mary, and smiled at her. She was an amazing woman- she didn't look fazed at all by having her boyfriend nearly burned alive at a bonfire party. John thanked the medics, declining their suggestions he go get checked out at the hospital. Lestrade came over to his other side, and John tried walking. He wavered at first but he kept to his feet. Proud he was handling himself so well, John smiled and looked for Sherlock. All John saw was a sweep of dark coat backlit against the flames, and Sherlock was gone.

* * *

><p>Sherlock rode the bike back towards Baker Street, the helmets strapped behind him to the seat. Prudence had made him wear the helmet on the way to the church, but he was past the point of caring now. John was safe, so Sherlock was free to release the rage that had been building inside. It was an inferno, eroding his control.<p>

Someone had dared to harm John Watson- and then taunt him with it. He knew of few people who had the audacity to do such a thing. The attack had been less about John and more about him. It was clear in that John had been grabbed outside Sherlock's flat, and in the messages to Mary. They had never been for her, but for him. Anyone with half a brain would know that the best person to save John Watson was Sherlock Holmes.

If he had been at home it's possible he could have stopped the kidnapping, maybe even caught John's assailants. But he had been out all day with Molly and Lestrade, after Mycroft had left that morning. Frustration burned along with the rage, and he had no doubt that if anyone was to get a good look at him now they would run screaming.

He had enjoyed Molly's company outside the lab, much to his surprise. She was stronger, less frail than she had been two years ago. The years away from him had done her wonders, as evidenced by the ring on her finger and the smile on her face. He hoped the engagement would finally expunge the unrequited love she held for him; he knew how poisonous such feelings for another could be. He probably shouldn't have kissed her though. He couldn't help himself- he owed much to Molly Hooper, more than a day out with him solving cases would ever be able to cover.

Sherlock shifted gears, increasing speed and dodging past several vehicles. The bike's power and suspension aptly suited his reflexes, and he pushed himself and the bike to their limits. He felt the cold wet air of the late London night on his face and neck, biting him like shards of glass. He was soaking wet, and chilled through to the bone. He felt alive- the anger, adrenaline, and fear mixed a heady cocktail he found intoxicating. Sherlock sympathized with John- it was indeed a heady mix. Addicting. So much so he contemplated keeping the bike instead of returning it. He'd left the owner and his girlfriend cooling their heels at Speedy's, a handful of pound notes tossed their way to keep the fuss to a minimum. Their cooperation wasn't surprising though, for Sherlock was fairly certain he'd put the fear of God into them when he commandeered their ride.

It had been several years since he had the chance to ride, and he was enjoying himself immensely. So much so he jumped the curb in front of Speedy's and slid the bike in for a insanely fast halt directly in front of the cafe's door. Deftly dropping the kickstand and hopping off in one smooth motion, Sherlock stepped through the door. Locating the owner, he tossed the keys to the kid and smiled sharply. The ride back had cleared his head enough for him to be slightly cordial.

"You ever want to sell it, I live just upstairs. 221B," with another dramatic swirl of his coat, Sherlock left the cafe. No doubt Twitter would light up tonight with** #sherlockstolemybike**, or something else equally ridiculous.


	8. Chapter 8 His Heart's in the Music

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but I love it like I do. Thank you for reading, and all the follows and reviews. More chapters are already written, and will be forthcoming shortly. Please enjoy!**

**Chapter Eight**

**"His Heart's in the Music"**

No one was more pleased than John Watson in the two days after the Underground Bombing attempt and the arrest of Lord Moran. Or he would have been pleased if the response to his blog hadn't crashed his page, and then lead to a dozen or so reporters showing up at his place before the sun was even up. The story had only been up for a couple of hours and London was going insane. Social media erupted, and the **#thegameisbackon **almost wrecked Twitter too.

John let the curtains drop, ignoring the bulb flashes, and picked up his mobile. If he wasn't going to be getting any sleep, then he knew one detective who wasn't going to be getting any sleep either.

* * *

><p>Sherlock hung up the phone, and lay in bed, thoroughly disgruntled and having a bad morning-<em>no, bad PRE-DAWN morning!<em>- .

John had, in predictable fashion, posted their first case back together on his blog. And the response from social media had been as explosive as the case- every pun intended. John had called to warn him that the media was going crazy, and were swarming his place, and the neighbors were having a fit.

"Sorry mate, Mary and I are escaping to your place, be there soon." John had said before clicking the call over. Sherlock had been so out of it he hadn't even been able to listen correctly. He usually slept like the dead after a case was completed, and he figured he'd been out like a light since sometime early afternoon yesterday. Groaning and mumbling under his breath about incorrigible doctors and their penchant for blogging overly dramatic versions of events, Sherlock slowly dragged his tired and sore body out of bed. Barely managing to remain on his feet, he loudly stumbled down the hall to the front room. Attempting to make his eyes work, he went to the window, and squinted down to the street below.

"JOHN! Bloody hell!" Sherlock cursed, hardly caring there was no one around to hear. He rolled his eyes at the herd of milling reporters practically camped on his front stoop. Sherlock stomped all the way over to the flat's door, yelling "Mrs. Hudson, time to wake up! We're under siege, company incoming!"

Knowing he'd shouted loud enough to wake the dead, Sherlock made his way back down the hall and stormed into his bathroom. John had his key- Sherlock wasn't waiting on them to show up.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was hiding, unashamedly so. In fact, he figured he was being fairly blatant about it. Too many cheery souls in his flat, drinking champagne and being talkative. Their laughter echoed off the halls down to his room, and he reached out and closed the door to his room halfway. Tossing aside the deerstalker cap he'd donned for the press, Sherlock threw off his jackets and reached for his robe. It was the new tan one Mrs Hudson had gotten him, the one he thought made him look washed out but she said made him look distinguished.<p>

He and John had stood outside Baker Street just minutes before, shoulder to shoulder. Knowing the press wouldn't leave unless they got something from them, Sherlock let John sway him into making a statement and taking some questions. John had been quite eager, and Sherlock caved easily after seeing how badly John wanted him to do it.

The reporters had been predictably stupid, as well as their questions. So very boring. "How did you know Lord Moran was the one behind the bombing attempt?", to "Is that the same hat?" and "Where have you been the last two years?" were practically asked on repeat. Sherlock had given the barest of answers to the first, a short "yes" to the second, and utterly ignored the third. John handled his questions well, a big smile never leaving his face. He even took the time to reply to the most banal of questions, while Sherlock just stood there and smirked.

It wasn't until the last question that Sherlock was caught unprepared. He really shouldn't have been, as someone was bound to ask. "Did Dr Watson know you were alive- have you been in communication the whole time you were presumed dead?" That was the question that silenced the whole crowd, as lenses flashed and cameras zoomed in on their faces, waiting on the answer. Sherlock had turned to John, one eyebrow raised in query - this one was for John, if he wanted it. John had looked slightly pained, then a polite mask wiped his features clean.

"Sherlock did what was necessary to stop a madman. England is safer with Moriarty and his organization gone." His calm non-answer drew groans from the reporters. "Thank you all for you time, and I will have a chance later to answer more questions on my blog. Thank you."

Sherlock was mildly impressed with John's handling of the media, though he was a little disappointed he didn't have a chance to be too outrageous. No sound bites played _ad infinitum _on Crimewatch tonight then. Plenty of hat shots though. John should enjoy that.

Sherlock picked the hat back up from the bed, smoothing out the bow on top. Every time he wore the damned thing people went crazy. Some even screamed. He had no idea why. John loved it though, chuckling every time he saw a picture of Sherlock wearing it. For that alone he kept it.

The noise level in the front room of his flat rose, and Sherlock knew he should be out there with them. The company had been tolerable until the knock-off fiancé had shown up, then it just got weirder. All the people he knew he could call his "friends" were out there, enjoying each other's company. They were not just celebrating the closing of the case, but Mary and John's engagement as well. Sherlock had noticed the ring instantly, as Mary made breakfast from the groceries they'd grabbed on the way over. Sherlock had snagged a cup of tea, and seen the unopened bottles of champagne in the bags left on the table. Obvious, really. He'd shook John's hand, and kissed Mary on the cheek in congratulations. He was certain neither had noticed the flinch he tried his damnedest to hide. Mrs Hudson had joined the party, going on and on about dresses and the perfect place to have the reception. John must have spread the word, because Lestrade had shown up after breakfast, and Molly and her fiancé just before the interview.

"Hey, you okay? You've been standing there for awhile just staring at that hat." John asked, having managed to sneak down the hall and into his room without Sherlock noticing. He stood just past the door, letting it fall back to its original position. John looked happy, content. At least Sherlock assumed he was, asking him to deduce someone's emotional state was always a hit and miss. But he figured John was, what with all the smiling and laughing. And that smile he had on his face at the moment made something lift in Sherlock's chest at the sight.

"Marvelous, John. Just wondering how long it would take to dissolve this ear hat in stomach bile," he replied.

"Right- just not when I'm around, okay?" John laughed, stepping closer to Sherlock. "The girls were talking about going out for lunch. Something or other about dresses. I bowed out, and Tom's off too. Lestrade has plans. It's just us, if you're up for the company."

"Tom?" He couldn't think, John was shutting down his brain being so close. _Act natural, he won't notice if you act natural..._

"Molly's boyfriend? Your doppelgänger? I'm taking that as a yes by the way. Let me just send the others off. Be right back." With that he turned and quickly slipped out of the bedroom. Suddenly there seemed to be more air in the room. Sherlock could hear him ushering people out, with Lestrade and Molly yelling their goodbyes to him down the hallway. Those two knew him well enough to figure why he was hiding out, and weren't at all upset by it. He waited until there was nothing but silence, and then sighed in relief. Throwing the ear hat over his shoulder, he cautiously walked down the hall towards the front room.

John was digging through the drawers in the kitchen, looking for take out menus. Sherlock paused, eyeing the doctor curiously while his back was turned. The entire morning (aside from the very serious moment on the stairs), John had been all smiles. At first Sherlock had thought it was because of Mary and the ring thing, but John's smile had changed from "thanks for your congratulations" to a smile far more _intense,_ and only at Sherlock. Every time Sherlock had been looking at John (which was a lot, he hadn't seen the man for almost two years, he can be forgiven for staring at his doctor), and John caught him, John's smile would alter slightly, and the look in his eyes made Sherlock shiver. John had always been able to get a reaction from Sherlock, whether he knew it or not. Always. Sherlock was just very good at hiding it, even from himself. So his morning was spent watching John smile that _smile_ at him. When he wasn't dodging happy people who made him want to find another roof to jump from, that is. John hadn't stop smiling all morning, and it was making Sherlock jumpy.

_I can hardly understand my own emotions most of the time, how can I interpret someone else's reliably? _Sherlock lamented internally, watching the way John's shoulders moved under his cardigan. Shaking himself out of his reverie, Sherlock turned and walked into the front room.

Trying to decipher John Watson's moods and emotional motives were both incredibly easy, and yet incredibly hard, all at the same time. Years on in their relationship, and Sherlock still couldn't fathom the depths of the doctor's heart. For instance, John's insistence he go out on date during a case, and then getting upset with Sherlock because he went too! John went on a date during a case, what did he expect? Sherlock was still stumped by that one. Though the good doctor's dating days were over, if the ring on Mary's finger was anything to go by. Sherlock knew he'd interrupted the first time John tried to propose with his poorly chosen "TADA!" moment as the waiter. Oops. Sherlock felt torn; he wanted John to be happy, and if Mary made John happy, then Sherlock was happy for them. Or so he kept telling himself. He found Mary to be the least objectionable of all the women John had dated over the years. She handled herself well in a crisis, and didn't make John choose between Sherlock/cases and herself. At least not yet. And the biggest deciding factor in her favor was that she accepted Sherlock, wholeheartedly. There had been no hesitation on her part, no fear or judgment. Almost as if she accustomed to people like himself, or even that she'd seen worse.

_If John is to be taken from me, let it be by someone like her. I can stand it if he loves her, loves her enough not to come back to me. I lost him two years ago, and she saved him. I left him broken, and Mary helped him heal. And he loves her for it. _Sherlock walked over to his chair, and snagged his violin up from the chair. Looking for the bow, he spotted it hiding under a newspaper with the headline "Hat Detective Returns". _UGH, what a dreadfully idiotic headline!_ At least he couldn't see the hat picture with the fold in the way.

"Food's all set, it should be here soon," John said, coming in from the kitchen and clicking off his mobile. He dropped himself into his chair, and looked at Sherlock expectantly. "Going to play, then?"

Sherlock nodded absently, his fingers automatically tuning the strings. He spared a quick glance at John, who was smiling at him again. He felt a small twitch of his own lips in return, and he flipped the bow end over twice before catching it in a casual, smooth motion.

"Well, don't tell anybody this or I'll kill you for real, but I've missed listening to you. Whenever I'd hear something on the radio or TV that sounded like something you'd play I'd always change the channel. Glad that's over now," he said casually, like he'd just stated he liked tea.

Sherlock's heart jumped, then settled into a slightly faster pace. He turned fully to John, settled on the arm of his chair, and thought for a moment. There was one song he knew from his childhood, one of the first he'd learned to play by heart. He brought the violin to his chin, the bow to the strings. Sherlock collected his thoughts, opened the door in his mind palace to the room that held his music, and began to play. The world fell away, and Sherlock let the music embrace him, along with the company he kept.

* * *

><p>John knew the song well, an old Irish ballad about a young soldier going off to war. It was a song about love, pain, and the promise of death in the end. About life going on afterwards, no matter how badly broken one's heart may be. John was absurdly touched by Sherlock's choice, and he pondered the man as he played. His eyes had almost completely closed, a glitter of gem stone brilliance peeking through his lashes. John was content to be still, and listen.<p>

_Does he know how much of himself he reveals while he plays? The world may see him one way, but if it was to see him play, I know a lot of opinions would change. His emotions, his fears, his thoughts are bared before his audience, with every note. If Sherlock ever needs help explaining his emotions, I know to give him his violin!_

Years ago, before the Fall, while they stilled lived together, Sherlock would play for hours. Many times he'd forgo speaking entirely for the violin instead. He would claim it was to help him think, to process cases. John knew it was more than that. It may help the detective solve a case, but it worked because it gave him an emotional outlet. Everything he repressed was released into the music. As his emotions calmed, Sherlock was able to think for more clearly. And with clarity, came insight.

Sherlock had reached the chorus, his body moving slightly with the melody of the song. His form was perfect, and he moved with an unconscious grace. His eyes were fully shut, face relaxed and peaceful. The sun had shifted in the sky, and a slight halo lit Sherlock from behind. John held his breath, afraid to move, to spoil the image. To see Sherlock like this was a rarity; it never happened often that he was content to play for the joy of the music, at peace with his place in the world.

John was flooded with gratitude, thankful that he could have this moment. Sherlock was truly home, and they were together again at last. As Sherlock played, John felt like the music was washing over him, into him. It went to all the broken places left in his heart; no matter that he had forgiven Sherlock and welcomed him back into his life, his heart was still damaged in so many places. John was helpless to the music as it played with his heartstrings. Sherlock was healing his hurts with each note, each elegant pull of the bow across the strings. When he forgave Sherlock on the train he had felt a weight lift from him, like the lessening of a burden he didn't know he was carrying. Now he was awash with emotion, as the music lifted him from the pain of the last two years. It conjured in him that awesome emotion he still couldn't name, the one he'd felt while Sherlock cried into his chest the other morning. This unnameable, powerful force of nature overwhelmed him, and John was lost to the music, and the man creating the miracle he was experiencing.


	9. Chapter 9 Takeaway, and The Truth

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but I really do love him! Please enjoy, I cried while writing this, hopefully I can get some tears out of everyone else!**

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><p><strong>Chapter Nine<strong>

**"Takeaway, and The Truth"**

Sherlock let the last note drift away, holding the bow posed over the strings as the violin quieted. Peace and contentment had stolen over him as he played, and he had kept playing until his fingers bid him rest. There hadn't been many opportunities to play while on the Continent, and the violin would have given potential observers clues as to his identity. Sherlock slowly lowered his instrument and opened his eyes, not surprised he had fully settled into the seat of his chair while playing. He often ended up in different places around the flat when he played; he could have just as easily ended up in the bathroom as his chair. Not that he would've minded, the bathroom had excellent acoustics.

John was gone from his chair; Sherlock tilted his head as he caught the murmur of voices from downstairs. The inner front door closed and he heard John's distinctive tread coming back up the stairs. He smelled Chinese food before John even breached the doorway, and Sherlock's stomach complained bitterly over its lack of food during the last few days.

"Don't think I didn't hear that! I know how you get on case, and as your doctor, I'm prescribing this entire carton of beef and scallops in oyster sauce." John dropped the takeaway carton in his lap, forcing Sherlock to hurriedly put aside his violin lest his dinner ended up on the floor.

The smell was overpowering, and John laughed as Sherlock damn near ripped the carton apart to attack the food. John completely lost it when Sherlock tossed the chopsticks to the floor and just started using his fingers. Sherlock just growled at him and kept eating. John bent over and picked up the discarded sticks, tossing them into the hearth. John settled for using his fork and ate his sweet and sour chicken at a more sedate pace.

John had barely finished his lunch before Sherlock went hunting for fortune cookies in the bottom of the take out bag.

"Going to guess at them again?" John asked.

"John, I never guess. You should know this by now," came the haughty reply.

"Yes you do, there's no way you can know what the cookies are going to say."

A flash of bright eyes and a smirk was his reply, and Sherlock came back up from the bag with a handful of cookies.

"Care to wager?" Sherlock asked, reaching over and dropping the fortune cookies into John's hands.

"Yeah, I do. But let's make this a serious wager."

"Oh?"

"If you can't get the majority right, I win. I win, I get to ask you a question that you have to answer with complete and thorough honesty. If you do get the majority right, then you get to ask me a question, same conditions." John said, issuing his challenge. He grinned at Sherlock, daring him to take him up on it.

Sherlock raised a brow, wondering what John was getting at. But considering he knew he would win, Sherlock smiled and waved his hand at John to begin opening the cookies.

Sherlock's smile grew into a grin as he told John the fortune for every cookie he opened. John's face was disbelieving, and after the fourth cookie and the correct fortune, he threw up his hands in disgust.

"One of these days you're going to tell me how you do that!" John complained, leaning over to spill half of the broken cookie pieces into Sherlock's palm. Their fingers brushed, and Sherlock felt the touch all the way down to his toes. It was if he'd run around his flat in wool socks and touched something metal. (Which of course he's done several times.)

"Never going to happen, my dear doctor. I am assuming correctly that I can hold my question in reserve, to be asked at my leisure?"

"Yeah, whenever. Still think you're cheating." John may complain about Sherlock and his pouts, but he had nothing on John Watson right now! Sherlock laughed, his deep baritone filling the flat. He began to munch thoughtfully on the pieces, and looked at John. _Why not? I have nothing to hide from John anymore. I have already lost everything to my Fall, let him ask me how I walked away from that rooftop._

"Go ahead John, ask your question. Same conditions. I'll ask mine some other time." Sherlock said quietly, catching the doctor's eyes as he looked up in surprise. John held his gaze for a second, before dropping his eyes to the floor.

_Are you going to ask me about how I survived? Why would that make you nervous? Why am I getting nervous because you hesitate to ask me?_

John cleared his throat, and brought his eyes back to meet the detective's. "Was it hard for you to leave? To do what you did to everyone; what you did to me?"

Sherlock was stunned- he hadn't expected that at all. He was expecting John to ask him how he pulled off surviving the Fall, or maybe even what he'd been doing for the last two years. Or possibly even ask him about his meltdown earlier in the week. Thinking back to that morning where he'd cried in John's arms, Sherlock had a place to start. He kept John's gaze, leaned back in his chair, sighed.

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><p>"You have asked me for complete and thorough honesty. I shall try my best to give it to you."<p>

"I knew it was coming. The events that lead to my Fall. The destruction of my reputation, all of it. I knew it was coming, and yet it still took every ounce of skill I possessed to survive it. Mycroft had given Moriarty enough of a false lead on me that we barely stayed ahead of him the whole time. Once we were on that roof, it was a battle to the death. One of us would win. What I hadn't anticipated was Moriarty's determination to win at all costs. He wanted to win, only win. I wanted to win and LIVE. That was the difference between us in the end. I wanted to live and he wanted to win. I would usually favor such ruthlessness to be the victor in such a confrontation, but my desire to survive gave me adaptability, options that he didn't think of. His endgame was my death - by suicide- and he used you, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson as leverage to ensure I died. He took himself out to prevent me from forcing him to call off the assassins. I could have broken him, and he knew it. Much of this you may already know, John, either from guesswork and from your own observations over the last couple of years." Sherlock paused, as John nodded slowly. Sherlock took a deep breath, and knew he was about to voice the hard part- his feelings.

"But more than anything, John- I wanted you to live. More than my own survival, I desired for you to live." Sherlock paused, and John's eyes widened slightly. Sherlock's heart began to beat harder, his palms to sweat. _Stay calm, and tell him all of it!_

"You said that day by my graveside that I had saved you. That you were alone, and that I pulled you back into life. What I couldn't say to you then, John, was that it was **you who saved me.** I have spent my whole life living inside my head, treating my body and my humanity as disadvantages to be overcome. My experiments, my cases, my deductions, even the drugs, were for the fostering of my mind and my skills, to the exclusion of my heart, my spirit."

"Only after a long time of prolonged exposure did other people even begin to register to me on something close to an emotional level. For me to care or concern myself with the wants and needs of others was an impossibility. I knew enough of society's strictures to remain functional, and to prevent people from interfering with me too often, or from hindering my pursuits."

John nodded, and said gently, "High functioning sociopath, I get it." He smiled a little, and his expression clearly encouraged Sherlock to keep going.

"Precisely John. I had diagnosed myself years before we met, and as I result I stopped trying to adapt to how other people expected, wanted me to be. I allowed myself freedom, but at a horrible cost. A cost I never realized I was paying, until I met you." Sherlock swallowed, thankful his voice was remaining even, calm. _Don't falter now, you survived Moriarty and the Fall, you can survive telling John the truth._

"From the moment we met at the lab at St Bart's, I knew you were different. I just thought it was because you accepted me as I was. You accepted me without judgment. You believed in me almost instantly, gave me your trust and your friendship without hesitation. You gave me something I had never had before, a friend. Over the months that followed, it was through you that began to remember, to realize, that I had been born with a heart, and that I had once used it. I would watch you, and learn from you. How I was supposed to feel to any given situation, and so very slowly, I learned to recognize my own emotions. I was able to feel them, name them, and I began to learn how to use them all through you. By being with you."

"The disgust and distrust I held towards sentiment was still strong, so it was an ever present battle between my head and my heart. But this is where you came in and saved me again, John." Sherlock's voice had gone soft, deeper, and he spoke as if in a trance, his eyes focused inwards.

John was amazed. He didn't know how they had gotten to this place, but he was determined not to stop the younger man. He barely recognized this person before him. If not for the cool, methodical voice, John wouldn't have known it was still Sherlock.

"How did I save you, Sherlock?" John asked, needing to know. His own heart felt like it was going to leap out of his chest, so badly did he need Sherlock to continue.

"Caught between cold reason, ruthless logic and the emotions so powerful and new to me, I feared the chaos would destroy me. Make me less than who I was, who I am still. Until I realized that you **made me stronger. **You would inspire my leaps of genius, and so too did you give me strength. You became my anchor, my calm center in the storm. I needed only you to keep me whole, focused. Better in every way."

Sherlock didn't notice the tears in John's eyes, or the hand he pressed to his own mouth to stop himself from ruining the moment. John cried silently, refusing to take his eyes from his detective.

"Is it selfishness, my desire to keep you alive? Is that what it came down to on that roof, in the end? I need you, so you must live? Admittedly, I had to fake my death for so many reasons, all of them justifiable. But was my true motivation to jump really to save you, so that you could keep saving me? Isn't that the purest form of selfishness there can be? After all you had done in teaching me to utilize my heart, my emotions, was buried under it a core as dark as Moriarty's? You must live so I can too? Am I a monster John, one determined to use you for my own selfish desires? That is a thought that haunts me, that haunts me even now. I fear it, that question." Sherlock felt like he was about to shatter, but he held onto the truth he had yet to reveal. _I will not fail to tell him!_

John tried to protest, but Sherlock lifted his hand, stilling John's voice. His eyes were aware again, and narrowed in on John's face. There was an intensity in those brilliant eyes John had never seen before, and he felt pinned to the chair and this moment in time.

"While I may never know the truth to that questions anytime soon, there is one thing I now for certain. With perfect clarity. You are in every part of me, every corner of my reality, my mind, my heart. My very cells are built around you. I want you to be happy. I want to see you smile, hear you laugh, know you are content and pleased with your life. I regretted causing you such hurt and pain, so much so it drove me to distraction. So many times during the last two years I wanted to reach out, and take away your sadness. I have the potential to be a monster, a mad dog of an anarchist like Moriarty. But there is one thing in this world keeping me from fulfilling that potential- and it's you, John Watson."

"So yes, it was hard for me to do what I did. Leaving you was the hardest thing I have ever done in my life."


	10. Chapter 10 Two Paths

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but Sherlock owns my heart! This chapter was a joy to write, I hope everyone enjoys reading it too! Things are about to get interesting! And if you have been following and reviewing, thank you. I really appreciate it all.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Ten<strong>

**"Two Paths"**

_" You are in every part of me, every corner of my reality, my mind, my heart. My very cells are built around you."_

Those words circled inside his mind, echoing. John was lost, so completely without anchor he had nothing but gravity holding him together. The words resonated inside of him, striking a response from every cell of his being. He had no control, and so he sat in his armchair next to the unlit hearth on a sunny autumn day, listening to his best friend confess _everything. _Sherlock bloody Holmes, the most amazing human being John Watson had ever met, had just given a confession worthy of a priest. Sherlock Holmes was a man who pulled off miracles like the average man made a cup of tea. John's belief in the infallibility of Sherlock had always been a constant, so to hear this man confess to needing _him_, of all people, left John destroyed. The vulnerability and strength of the man who had just bared his soul to him left John struck dumb.

For the first time in a long time, John felt a few tears escape, rolling down his cheeks, and over the hand he still pressed to his mouth to hold back a sob. He hadn't taken his eyes from Sherlock once during his entire speech, and he found he couldn't look away now. Sherlock's eyes traced the trail the tears made down his face.

_"So yes, it was hard for me to do what I did. Leaving you was the hardest thing I have ever done in my life."_

John couldn't breathe, his lungs freezing, muscles tightening across his body. A small part of him was afraid he might be having a heart attack, but his heart raced on in his chest. He felt the room close in around him, spots dancing in his eyes.

"John, please breathe! I don't want to explain to people why you fainted in my flat." Sherlock's tone was amused, but his eyes were wary, as if he were afraid of John's reaction.

John dropped his hand, realizing he'd inadvertently been choking himself. He dragged in a lungful of air, coughing. His vision cleared, and he tried to find words. Any words, really. "Oh God, Sherlock..."

"Not quite, people always get us confused. Understandable, really." Sherlock quipped, his regular arrogance returning like a shield. His eyes glittered suspiciously, but he smirked at John anyway.

That snapped John back from the brink._ I'm not going to let you play this off! It's too late, I heard it all. You just broke my heart and put it back together again!_

"Oh shut it mate. I'm not going to let you play this off, just gimme a minute to recover. I can't wrap my head around it. And no idiot comments." John said, his voice harsh even to his own ears. John stood, his sudden movement making Sherlock flinch, the barest tightening of the skin around his eyes. He walked to the center of the room, his back to the hearth and the young man who sat there. His hands hung at his sides, clenching and releasing in nervous habit.

_Does he realize what he's just done to me? No one has ever... He needs me, Sherlock bloody Holmes NEEDS me! Everything he just said, those are the most important words I've ever heard in my life. He has to know that! I have to tell him, I have to tell him how much he matters to me, but I don't have the words. _It was that thought that made John stiffen up, his spine straightening. He would not fail to let this man know how much he mattered. How much he had always mattered. John turned back to Sherlock, to see him pretending to be totally fine, picking invisible lint from his sleeve.

"Thank you." John hadn't meant for the words to just slip out like that. Sherlock had been all eloquence and sophistication, and John wanted to at least try for something close to that. But he couldn't - he wasn't built for grandiose statements and flowery speeches. He was blunt, to the point, he appreciated simplicity. Sherlock looked up in surprise. John walked back towards the hearth, stopping at the side of Sherlock's chair. John looked down at his detective, and tried again.

"I'm not, you know I'm not good at this. So I'll just say it. Thank you. For telling me. For being honest. For saving all of our lives at the risk of your own. You literally gave up your life to stop a madman, to save us all. To save me." John paused, gathered his words. "You may not have died in body, but you still gave up your life. I understand that kind of sacrifice." John felt a twinge of pain from the scar on his left shoulder in response.

John took another deep breath, and looked Sherlock deep in his eyes, trying to impart just how he was feeling. He would say the next part if it killed him. It just might, if Sherlock reacted badly. He would be brave and say it, he could do nothing less.

"I need you too." John was terrified, but he couldn't make himself stop. "You make me feel alive, whole. You make me feel something I have never felt before. I don't know what it is, but I need you to know I feel it. Having you in my world again gives me purpose. I had routine, I had structure, a career to fill my time and days. But a sense of purpose? A reason to be alive? I get that from you."

John reached out his hand, slowly. He stopped just shy of Sherlock's hand where it rested on the armrest. He held it there, unable to keep reaching. "Having you back, it hurt almost as bad as having lost you. You came back just as suddenly as you left me. My life had a single path ahead of it after you left. One I wanted, and chose, as there was nothing left to choose from with you gone. I can try to deny that I settled for the lesser of two options, but you were gone, my life with you was gone. I had to survive losing you, so I chose a path that gave me back some sense of living again. A shadow of what I had with you in my world, but enough to keep me together."

Sherlock was paler than he usually was, his eyes glittering in the sun that shone through the windows on his face. His hand closed the final distance between them, lifting to grasp John's hand. John felt that emotion he couldn't name rise up in him at Sherlock's touch, his pulse racing. He knew Sherlock could feel it, his fingers rested lightly on his wrist.

"Now I have two choices, and I am terrified. I never expected to have this choice, so I never thought about the consequences of choosing. I don't know what to do, I need you to help me now." Sherlock's grip was stronger now, and his eyes latched onto John's. "What I feel for you is stronger than anything I have ever felt before. It's so strong I can't control it, Sherlock. I felt it like a punch to the gut in the restaurant, I felt it the other morning here in your flat, I felt it when you held me in your arms after pulling me from the fire. I have never felt _this before for anyone, much less a man._ It's a puzzle driving me insane, Sherlock. Help me solve it. Tell me what I'm feeling, please. I need you. I need you."

It was a roaring beast in his ears, that nameless emotion. It gave him no peace, pulled him from his comfort zone and dragged him behind it. He had the sense to keep holding onto Sherlock, as the realization hit him. It was need, basic and primal. He had the experience to know it was attraction, desire, but at a level beyond anything he had ever felt. And it came out only in response to the man before him. It was more than desire, too - it was love. Love beyond what one felt for a friend or colleague. Love so strong it felt like he was being remade, like a river bed beneath flood waters.

It crystallized together in a cohesive whole in an instant in time, every little thing that had never quite added up. Once the pain and betrayal of the first couple of days had faded, this love had grown fast and true. It had made him wake up every morning feeling more alive, put energy back into his body and heart. He felt like himself again, how he felt he was supposed to be. But he had felt restless, like he was missing something the last few mornings. Once he saw Sherlock that morning, and the reaction Sherlock had to Mary's ring, that feeling had grown faster, stronger, alive in him so much so he was helpless beneath it. Sherlock's confession broke down the last wall of defense he had been using; denial. He had been denying what he was feeling, denying its existence because it wasn't what he was supposed to feel. It seems he had always felt it, from the first moment Sherlock had deduced his whole life and asked to use his mobile. But with Sherlock's return, this love took its chance to grow again, and didn't stop. He was in love with Sherlock Holmes, had been forever, and would always be.

John knew he loved Mary. It had been a soft, powerful love that caught him from his grief and pushed him back into the feeling world. He knew Mary had saved him in no small way, teaching him to be a person again. And he had wanted to have a future with her, a family. If Sherlock reciprocated in any way, John knew he couldn't continue with Mary. He would let her go, it was only right. He would hate to hurt her, but what he was feeling now was too much. Even if Sherlock turned him aside, he didn't think he could ever go back to Mary. What he was feeling now, for Sherlock, was akin to being struck by lightning twice in a lifetime. It just never happened. And he didn't want it to go away, leaving him a burnt ruin of a man.

_What path you take now rests in Sherlock's hands. What your future is going to be. He has control now. I just hope he understands what I'm trying to tell him, if he doesn't understand, or if he reacts badly, I'm done. Broken. What if he doesn't understand? Oh God, I suck at this I really do... _He didn't know what to do next or what to say. He was terrified Sherlock would never understand what he wanted, or if he did, would rebuke him. In all their years together, Sherlock had never shown romantic attraction to anyone. The Woman was the closest John had ever seen him get, but that relationship was broken from the start. He had never expressed a desire for anything beyond friendship, and what they currently shared. In his confession he hadn't mentioned love at all, in fact he had chosen almost every way to express how he was feeling but love. And that left John stuck, no option but to leave the choice of what his future would be in Sherlock's hands. _Screw it, I going to try..._

"Sherlock... I need you. Save me again, please." John backed up slowly, gently pulling the unresisting detective to his feet. He faltered, standing next to this man he needed so much, holding tightly to his hand. He felt the current rising in him, that charge building beneath his skin. Its heat grew in his stomach, like he had just downed a fifth of whisky in seconds. He was on the edge, so close. John was shaking, breathing erratic, heart racing, skin flushed. He looked up into Sherlock's face and met his eyes. And waited.


	11. Chapter 11 First Time for Everything

**Chapter Eleven**

**"First Time for Everything"**

John's grip on his hand was strong, for all that he was shaking. _Fingers hot, pulse racing, his eyes dilated, ragged breathing pattern... _Sherlock catalogued the symptoms in front of his eyes, hardly believing his own senses. _JOHN. Am I wrong? I don't want to be wrong... _Sherlock reached for John's other wrist, his long fingers finding the pulse leaping at the joint. _I'm not wrong!_

_ "I need you too... save me again." _John's words reverberated through Sherlock's whole being, lighting a fire in their wake. They were so close Sherlock felt the heat from the other man's body down his entire length. Sherlock felt that urge to touch more of his doctor swell up, overcome him like it had the morning John came to see him. The difference was, he was touching him already, and John wasn't mad at him... John was acting like he wanted nothing more than to be closer too...

Sherlock was trapped, at a loss on how to proceed. He had zero experience, no basis for comparison on what action to take to get what he wanted. He didn't even know what he wanted... all he knew is he wanted to be closer.

"John... tell me what to do." Sherlock whispered, voice deep and full of longing.

"What do you want?" John asked back, whispering too. He shifted slightly, until he was pressing lightly along Sherlock's front, chest to hips. Sherlock felt the immediate change in his body, static electricity charging across every inch of his skin. Felt heat, too. So much heat, especially where their bodies met.

"More... I want more. Show me what to do, John." Theirs faces were closer now, foreheads brushing.

"I can help you, let me show you..." His voice whispering against Sherlock's mouth; tipping his face up, John said, "Like this Sherlock..." John moved carefully, cautiously, and oh so ever gently placed his lips to Sherlock's.

He froze. Heart stopped, muscles seizing tight. All his considerable focus narrowed down to the sensation of his doctor's lips on his own. Strong and surprisingly soft, and so very hot. So hot... his eyes drifted shut, and he was dimly aware he made a tiny sound deep in his throat. John pressed closer, encouraged. John moved his lips, increasing the pressure of his kiss. Sherlock's lips opened of their own accord, and he groaned in pleasant surprise when John's tongue touched his.

John knew instantly that Sherlock was inexperienced, he had no notion how to kiss him back. It made him extra aware that he shouldn't try to push any faster, to be careful. Sherlock let John lead, trusting completely that John would show him what to do. John pressed himself fully against Sherlock, tilted his head to the side, and kissed Sherlock as deeply as he dared, giving the man every shred of skill he could muster. John swept his tongue across Sherlock's, touching and tasting him. Sherlock shivered, and angled his head to let John in deeper. John moaned, loving his detective's response, the sound escaping into Sherlock's mouth.

Curious, Sherlock tried to respond. His tongue darted out, and tangled with John's. This brought a growl from the doctor, and Sherlock found enough courage to do it again. John shook his hands free and whipped them up the grasp Sherlock firmly, fingers buried in his dark curls. Sherlock's hands found their way to John's hips, and he yanked them tightly to his own. Sherlock stopped caring that he had no notion of what he was doing, and let instinct take over. He wanted more, so much more. John tasted wonderful, his mouth the most amazing thing he had ever felt. All his senses were heightened, and he used them to enjoy the man in his arms. Everything felt new, sensations stirred to life by the man kissing him so passionately.

Suddenly breaking apart, both panting hard for air, Sherlock and John just stared at each other in shock. Sherlock's lips were red and bruised looking, his eyes hooded and his face flushed by color. John was astounded at the response he'd been given to his kiss, and what in turn it had done to him. Satisfaction at giving Sherlock his first real tongue tangling kiss made him smile. Sherlock smiled in return, hesitantly at first then splitting into a wide grin. Sherlock laughed, his voice full of something so rarely heard in it it- joy. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's chest, and buried his face in his neck, laughter bubbling up from him as well. Sherlock hugged him back, their laughter joining together and echoing of the walls of the flat.

...

"Did I do it right then? Did I save you?" Sherlock asked quietly, his chest rumbling under John's ear.

"Yes, I think you did. You saved me very nicely, indeed." John replied, lifting his head to smile that special smile of his at his detective. "I wasn't certain how you would respond, I was quite nervous in fact."

"Hhhmmm." Sherlock caught John's eye, and slowly dipped his head to kiss John quickly on the lips. He pulled back almost instantly, eyes questioning. John was surprised, and happily hugged Sherlock in response. "I want to do that again, John. I am supposed to keep wanting to do that, right?"

"Yes, you are. Please keep doing that." So Sherlock dipped down for another, longer kiss. Sherlock was finding himself enjoying this whole kissing thing far more than he ever thought he would. So much so he got distracted by those firm, soft lips, those strong hands holding him tightly. Sherlock hummed happily as John slowly pulled away, lips clinging for one last kiss before Sherlock let him go.

John pulled away from Sherlock, his right hand gliding across Sherlock's chest as he stepped towards his armchair. Sherlock went to follow, hesitant, unsure of what to do next.

John sat heavily in his chair, and sighed deeply. His face lost the happy glow it had been wearing. Sherlock was alarmed, and went to stand next to John's chair. "John? What did I do?" _Oh God, I did something wrong..._

"No, no. It's nothing you did, not directly." John's voice seemed sadder, and he had a look that clearly said whatever he was thinking about wasn't pleasant.

"Oh, okay. Not directly? Can you explain?" Sherlock was getting nervous, his stomach clenching in what he thought might be fear.

John looked at him, and grimaced. One word was all he needed to explain, really. One name. "Mary."

"Mary? What does Mary have to do with me?...oh!" Sherlock felt like an idiot, which didn't happen often, unless he missed a clue so obvious it had been staring him in the face the whole time. "You're engaged to Mary, and you were just kissing me."

John smiled, and laughed a little at that. "Yeah, spot on. I need to know what to do about Mary. Or, more accurately, I know what I must do."

"What must you do?" John looked up at Sherlock when he asked that, and reached out for his detective's hand. The ease at which John reached for him reassured Sherlock, and he gripped John's hand firmly.

"Even if you hadn't let me kiss you, if you hadn't kissed me back, I would still have to do this. Break things off with Mary. It's not right. I won't be that person. I can't be with her, feeling about you the way I do. How I've always felt about you."

Sherlock felt that tingle of current along the surface of his skin again, and he stroked a finger along the inside of John's wrist. "How do you feel about me?"

"Sherlock, you great idiot. Can't you tell? I love you."

Sherlock Holmes has never been speechless, never been shocked so deeply he couldn't find some reply. John had even remarked once that he would outlive God to have the last word. But those three words from John Watson left Sherlock without the ability to speak, to think, to move. He heard them echo into his heart, that sorely abused and neglected place that John had brought to life not so long ago. _I love you I love you I love you..._

More than a minute passed, with Sherlock unmoving and staring at John. John was fairly certain Sherlock didn't even blink. He was starting to worry, and tugged on Sherlock's arm. "Sherlock, you're starting to scare me. It's ok if you don't feel the same way, I know you care, that's enough for me." He hadn't even finished speaking the words before Sherlock exploded into motion, diving at John so fast he couldn't even see him move but for a blur of tan robe and dark slacks. Sherlock locked his lips to John's, hands on his shoulders, pressing him hard against the back of his chair, practically sitting in the doctor's lap. In fact he was so tightly glued to John that he just settled fully into his lap, oblivious to the grunt John made at the weight. John was stunned, but he quickly kissed Sherlock back, his heart racing at the way Sherlock was kissing him, as if he were dying and it was the last kiss they would ever share.

Sherlock pulled back, a manic grin on his face, eyes shining. "Say that again?"

"I love you." John said quietly, sincerely. It was so easy to say to this man of his, he was amazed he hadn't the nerve to say it before. "I love you."

This time John kissed Sherlock, lips firm and sure. Sherlock knew he was smiling, and that John could feel it too. They sat there for what felt like forever, Sherlock sitting in his doctor's lap. John didn't want to leave, but his conscience wouldn't let him procrastinate any longer. "I have to call her, go see her." John said quietly, nuzzling at the unbelievably soft curls next to Sherlock's ear. Sherlock sighed, and then leapt to his feet, pulling John up with him.

"Do you want company?" Sherlock asked, unsure if he was expected to be in attendance for this sort of thing or not. John knew the answer to that though.

"Um, no that might not be wise. I'll call her now, tell her to meet me back at the house." John pulled out his mobile, and just looked at it for a minute before hitting the speed dial.

Sherlock, in a rare moment of consideration for people's need for privacy, pretended to be interested in the way dust particles were floating in the air next to the windows. He waited until John finished talking, having just asked Mary to meet him back at the house. Sherlock marveled at John's willingness to break off his engagement. He found John's faith in him as charming as the man's exclamation of awe at his deductions. John ended the call, and Sherlock turned back to his doctor. He looked pale, and stared at the mobile like it was going to tell him what to do or something.

"John?" Sherlock knew that his doctor would be able to do what he must, but apparently he needed to be reminded he wasn't alone. "It's ok, you can do this. Just tell her the truth, whatever that may be. Tell her everything if you want. I know you care for her."

John nodded, and stood straighter. He smiled at Sherlock, then said, "I'll be needing a place to live after tonight, most likely."

"You already have a place to live, you just haven't been here in awhile." Sherlock smiled at his doctor, enjoying the pleased look on John's face. "I'll clean up a bit. Maybe."

* * *

><p>Sherlock hid just inside the flat's front door, waiting until John got into the cab. Hearing it pull away from the curb, he opened the door quickly and stepped out. Thankfully the reporters had all left hours ago, so there was no one on the street to notice Sherlock hail another cab. Hopping in, he gave John's address on the other side of town. He wondered if John would notice. Most of the time he never did. Sherlock had a feeling that John would need him after his talk with Mary. Sherlock whiled away the time on the drive there scrolling through his emails, ignoring all the boring requests from potential clients. Nothing but a bunch of 2's and 3's, and an occasional 5 mixed in there. Nothing worth his time.<p>

Pulling up Lestrade's number, he started to text.

** Anything you need me for? -SH**

**Nope. You just saved England, and you're bored already? -GL**

** My mind is a terrible thing to waste, Detective Inspector. Can't stand being bored. -SH**

** You getting bored is dangerous. I'll call you when we need you. Don't cause any trouble before then. -GL**

Lifting his head, he saw they were approaching John's street. "Stop here please, on the corner." He tossed the cabbie some notes, and stepped out. He was three houses down from John's house, on the opposite side of the street. He had been only moments behind him, so he saw John step into his door just as he got into a good position. He figured it would be an hour or so before John came back out, as Mary's car parked on the curbside clearly showed she had gotten there first. Spying a bench on the curb, he sat down and waited, eyeing the house John had gone into. He didn't think he was nervous, as much as afraid for John once he got out of that conversation. Mary didn't strike him as the type of woman to just calmly accept John leaving without a fight. She had a steel core to her that Sherlock admired, and he felt a small twinge of regret that he was stealing back his doctor. The afternoon was bleeding away into evening, the sun low on the horizon. Sherlock checked the time, and he calculated that John would be out in another ten minutes or so. He flipped screens on his mobile, and found the cab service app. Plugging in his location, he received an almost immediate alert, telling him a cab was en route.

Sherlock stood up, and began slowly walking down the street toward John's place. The lights were on all over the house, and he caught occasional glimpses of people in the windows as he approached. He saw John standing in what must be his living room, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He was facing Mary, who was standing with her arms crossed, her stance angry and defensive. Suddenly her left arm jerked up, and flung forward fast. For some reason Sherlock's heart jumped in alarm at the sight, as if he had been expecting to see something in her hand. Instead she threw something small and shiny, that bounced off of John's chest before she turned and disappeared into the depths of the house. Confused as to why Mary throwing her engagement ring at John should scare him, Sherlock paused on the street and watched John through the window. He stood there as she had left him, before slowly leaning down and picking up the ring. He placed it gently on a coffee table before turning and walking out of sight of Sherlock's window.

Sherlock heard the cab he had ordered pull up right behind him just as John stepped out his front door, closing it firmly. He caught sight of Sherlock and the cab at the same time, a smile lifting some of the sorrow from his face. John walked towards Sherlock, his bag slung over his shoulder, and with each step he stood taller, his smile getting bigger. Sherlock held out his hand, and without a word they both walked to the waiting cab hand in hand. Sherlock popped the door, and let John get in first.

"Where to?" Asked the cabbie. He started the meter and pulled out into the street.

"Home. 221B Baker Street, please." It was John who answered, making Sherlock smile. They sat in silence all the way home, John grasping Sherlock's hand.


	12. Chapter 12 The One Known as Mary

**Disclaimer: Things are about to go crazy, fair warning. Rating has been jumped up to M, and it's staying there. I don't own Sherlock, but he owns me! I really hope everyone enjoys, I shall be uploading more chapters soon. If you like it, please review! And thank you for reading!**

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><p><strong>Chapter Twelve<strong>

**"The One Known As Mary"**

The woman the world knew as Mary Morstan sat on the staircase of the now empty house she had been sharing with John Watson. He had just left moments before, taking with him a promise of a future she knew had been too good to be true.

Her finger was sore from where she'd ripped off the engagement ring, and a small part of her brain analyzed the pain and tried rubbing it away. The other part of her mind was devoted to maintaining control, to keeping her on those stairs. She wasn't about to run after him, pleading he love her more than the man he was leaving her for. No, she worked at her control so that she didn't kill him, or kill Sherlock Holmes. The rage was strong, and came crawling out of the part of her she thought long dead.

In reality, she had died five years prior, in a spectacular explosion designed to leave nothing behind but red mist. Having successfully taken out her last targets, Mary had disappeared into the explosion designed to cover all evidence, revealing her presence just long enough for there to be outside witnesses to her "death."

Sherlock Holmes wasn't the only one who could die and be reborn. For almost twenty years the woman now known as Mary had traversed the globe, dealing death and misery for her masters, and for profit when the mood struck her. Over seven billion people in the world, meaning there had been no shortage of jobs. What there had been a shortage of was time - which Mary had been running out of. The downside to being oh so very good at killing had been that too many people knew who she was, who she had killed, and who her masters were. It was the bane of existence for most killers; the successful ones eventually had to be "retired", as their functionality diminished after the fifteen year mark. She had been so remarkably good at her job, at disappearing, and at completing assignments with minimal evidence left behind, that her expiration date had been later than most.

So five years ago, after that last massively wonderful job, Mary had faked her death. It saved everyone the hassle of trying to take out a successful assassin without losing more assets. And so she hid, and kept her head down, changed her appearance, and dug up the name of a stillborn infant in the charming countryside of rural England. Having a functional skill in first aid and medical techniques, becoming a nurse had been as easy as breathing. As easy as any of the dozen of other roles she had played in the pursuit of her previous career. Eventually, she knew the role she was playing would become real; her talents allowing her to adapt naturally to the idioms, accents, and cultural reactions of the land she now called home. England was similar enough to her previous homeland that she took to it like a duck to water.

There she had created the life of Mary Morstan, orphaned late in life, no family to speak of, and a need to move away from painful memories, to make new friends, a new life. People tend not to ask questions about your younger years if you make it as awkward as possible for them to do so. And if you make it boring enough. No one likes to be bored.

She sobbed, catching herself before the sound slipped free in to the air. She would not weep for John Watson. She had known his love for Sherlock Holmes to be strong, so strong it was like living with another person in this house. He had still loved her, touched her, cared for her and went through the motions of enjoying their life together. But the moment Sherlock Holmes came back to life, John had changed. No, that was wrong; he hadn't changed, he had merely changed _back_ to who he was before the Fall. As if the man she had met ten months ago had been a mere cipher of who John Watson really was.

She stood, and went deeper into house, walking inside the pantry. Moving aside some canned goods, she lifted the shelf away from the wall. Running the tips of her fingers along the plaster underneath, she felt the small depression she knew to be there and pushed. A deep _clinking _noise came from within the wall, and a squared, small portion of wall popped free. Reaching inside, ignoring the dust and cobwebs, she pulled out a long, slim case, made of hardened plastic and reinforced with biometric locks along its length. She carefully let the case down on the floor, wiping the dust from its exterior. Her fingers lightly touched on the miniature scanners, and tiny beeps went off in welcoming succession. Each lock opened, and she gingerly opened the lid. Inside were the remnants of her old life. Knives, guns, silencers, small half pound bricks of sealed C4, assorted other tools. The disassembled sniper rifle gave her the greatest pause, her fingers lingering a moment before moving on. Her fingers danced among her tools, touching on them like familiar friends from old. She felt a cold breeze along the surface of her heart; she hadn't felt the need to touch these weapons, her oldest friends, in a very long time. The reassurance she got from them now steadied her heart, gave her a calm center upon which to right her rapidly dissolving world.

Mary let her love wash away to mix with her rage; holding it inside would make her useless, cripple her actions and her reflexes. She had the training to survive this; whether anyone else survived it was another matter. She cried without tears, an old skill developed early. One she hadn't used in a very long time.


	13. Chapter 13 Redecorating, with Villains

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but imitation surely is the sincerest form of flattery. Or perhaps I should say inspiration is? Please enjoy, and if you do, review!**

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirteen<strong>

**"Redecorating, with Villains"**

Night had fallen by the time they returned to Baker Street. Sherlock grabbed John's bag as they left the cab, John paying. Together they went to the door, and Sherlock opened it with his key. Each step together was familiar, each move so ingrained in them they moved around each other with ease. The lights were on behind Mrs Hudson's door, but they went straight up to Sherlock's flat without stopping.

Sherlock tossed the bag on the couch, and twirled his jacket off. He slung it up on the hook behind the door before disappearing down the hall to his room. John stopped just past the flat's door, blinking tiredly at the room where his life had just changed a few hours before. His life had changed so many times in this room, he had lost count.

John could hear Sherlock making a racket in his room, but he didn't pay much attention. He felt exhausted, strung out. He'd had the busiest and craziest day of his life - well maybe second craziest, that day with Moriarty and the pool had been a bitch. Getting strapped down with explosives and being told to repeat after a madman wasn't something you ever really got to top. That memory conjured up another, the mastery and fearlessness of Sherlock Holmes, as he faced down a monster. Thinking about Sherlock always did weird things to his head, and this time it was no different. And it wasn't just his head Sherlock was affecting.

John smiled to himself, and after a particularly loud BANG from Sherlock's room, he stopped daydreaming and walked down the hall. Sherlock had turned on all the lights as he went, the bathroom door open, his bedroom door ajar.

"What in the world are you doing?" John asked, and it was obvious from the disarray that whatever it was, Sherlock wasn't holding back. Half of Sherlock's clothes were torn from the closet, hangers dropped everywhere, with the clothing lumped on top of the bed. Sherlock was currently dragging a short dresser from the depths of his closet, and he pushed it up against the wall where there was an empty space. He then turned to his armoire, where he kept all his suits, and flung open the door. Staring at it with a fierce frown on his face, he sniffed loudly before slamming the door shut.

Sherlock didn't bother answering, instead walking past John into the bathroom. He seemed to be displeased with what he saw, as he sniffed again and stalked right back out. John just shrugged, used to the idiosyncrasies of the younger Holmes. John was so tired he just stood in Sherlock's room, staring at the very soft looking bed. It didn't matter to him that half of Sherlock's wardrobe wilted at the foot of it in a heap. All he wanted in that instant was to lay down. John distantly heard Sherlock storming down the stairs, making the turn to Mrs Hudson's flat. John laughed quietly again, as he heard Sherlock calling to his landlady, something about more towels.

_I am so tired. This has been a very long day. _John made his decision, toed off his shoes, took off his coat and cardigan, and threw himself flat on his back on Sherlock's bed. Thinking he should have killed the lights was the last thing he thought, as sleep took him quickly. He fell asleep on blankets that smelled like Sherlock, smiling.

...

"More towels? Why on earth do you need more towels? Are you experimenting again?" Mrs Hudson asked, staring at Sherlock as he raided her linen supply.

"I don't need them, John does." Sherlock replied, armful of cotton towels muffling his voice. Mrs Hudson followed behind him up the stairs, completely confused.

"Why would John need my towels? Is he experimenting now too?"

Sherlock grinned wickedly under the towels covering his face, knowing she couldn't see. "Because I already used all of mine, and he needs towels." Sherlock's answer seemed adequate to him, but Mrs Hudson was still confused.

She followed him down the hall, and stood watching as he dumped her towels onto the towel rack in the bathroom. Sherlock turned and walked to his bedroom door, where he promptly stopped. Mrs Hudson bumped into him, having expected him to keep going. "Sherlock, what is going on?"

Sherlock didn't answer, and Mrs Hudson peered around his shoulder into the room. There she saw the unexpected. John was sound asleep, laying on his back, snuggling with Sherlock's pillow. His lower legs dangled over the side of the bed, his feet almost touching the floor. He was breathing deep, face relaxed, his other hand on his stomach.

"Oh! Dear me, isn't that going to hurt his back? And why is he asleep on your bed?" Mrs Hudson whispered loudly. Sherlock stirred, and tore his eyes away from his doctor, where he had stretched out on his bed. Sherlock snagged the door, hit the lights and gently nudged Mrs Hudson out-of-the-way all in the same motion, blocking her view of John. He closed the door, being very careful not to close it as loudly as he usually did. He shut Mrs Hudson out into the hall, and he stood in the dark as his eyes adjusted. He heard her huff in annoyance before moving into his kitchen, where she started banging about, probably making tea.

Stealthily he walked over to the bed, and grabbed the clothes he'd pulled from his closet earlier. Carelessly he dropped them to the closet floor and quietly closed the door. He moved so lightly that he made no noise, ghosting across his bedroom floor to the bed. John slept on, oblivious to everything. Sherlock stopped by John's legs, and he very gently bent down and picked the doctor's feet up, and moved John so he was laying properly on the bed. The blankets got all screwed up and Sherlock was surprised that John hadn't woken up yet. Sherlock sat down next to him on the bed, and just stared. John's face was visible in the moonlight from the window, and Sherlock's eyes had adjusted enough to let him see the older man clearly in the darkness.

_His hair has more grey in it. A few more lines next to his eyes. John is here. _Sherlock felt a curious sensation, a slight tremor in his fingers. He raised his hand, and so very slowly, reached out to John's face. He paused a hair's breadth from his temple, fingers just itching to touch. Sherlock gave in to the temptation, and he traced his fingers across John's cheek, to his mouth, followed the bottom edge of his lips before lifting away. His touch had been feather light, but somehow John stirred awake, his eyes blinking hazily from exhaustion. He seemed at a loss for where he was, then awareness flooded back into his eyes. He didn't speak, and neither did Sherlock.

Sherlock lifted his hand again, his fingers whispering across the other man's jaw line, from his ear to his mouth. Sherlock couldn't tell for sure, but he thought he saw a blush creep across John's cheeks. As his fingers got to his lips, John lifted his own hand and caught at Sherlock's shirt, pulling him down to him. Sherlock went willingly, and stretched out beside John, his arm next to his head, propping him up. John kept tugging, and Sherlock dipped his head, and somehow their lips found each other in the dark. Sherlock was half laying on top of John, his weight mostly on his arm and hip. John's other hand had found its way into his hair, tugging at his curls. The kiss was chaste and slow, deepening for only a heartbeat before John let Sherlock lift back up. It was dark, Sherlock's long form casting shadows. Neither could see each other clearly, but the emotions swirling between them were tangible. Sherlock noted in the back of his mind that he was breathing faster, and he hadn't wanted to stop. John's hand was very distracting, playing with his hair.

"Is that Mrs Hudson out there, making all that racket?" John whispered, his breath blowing into Sherlock's ear.

"Mmmm." Sherlock leaned down, and tried to catch John's mouth again. John laughed, and began to sit up.

"We can't hide in here this early at night, with the lights off, making out with Mrs Hudson in the kitchen brewing tea!" John sat up on the bed, as Sherlock groaned and fell onto his back.

"Why ever not?" That seemed like a perfectly logical thing to Sherlock, but he wasn't the expert on snogging your flatmate. He groaned again in protest as John climbed over him to hop off the bed.

John gasped and jumped as Sherlock 'helped' him, his fingers sneaking into places unexpected. Sherlock was surprisingly willing to be physical with him, and John was flustered. _Most likely an accident? Oh God, it probably wasn't! But damn that felt good!_

"Stop it!" John hissed, trying not to laugh. This entire evening was surreal, and he felt like he was in a dream. It was a turn he would never have expected for his life to take. He would've felt lost if this had been any other person but Sherlock; but because it _was _his detective, he had a compass of sorts. "Did you tell her anything?"

"Tell her what? That we made out, you said you loved me, and then you broke it off with your fiancé, after which you promptly moved back home, and you then fell asleep in my bed?"

"Um, yeah that. Tell her any of that?" John flicked on the light, making Sherlock throw his arm over his eyes and lament under his breath about the stubbornness of a certain doctor. John cracked open the door, and peered down the hall.

"Haven't said a word, thought it would've been obvious, really." Sherlock sat up, and bounced back to his feet. He crowded behind John, wondering why he hadn't just opened the door and gone out if he was so determined that they not be making out instead. He reached over John's head, pulled the door open, and walked out into the hall.

"Sherlock! Jesus!" John hesitated at the door a second, before slowly walking down to the kitchen. Sherlock smirked at John's nervousness, and he sat himself down at the table. It was still remarkably clear, as he hadn't had chance to muck it up since breakfast. Mrs Hudson had the teacups ready, waiting on her boys to finally come out of that bedroom. She had a small suspicion what was going on in there, but she didn't want to judge too early.

She gave Sherlock his tea, a splash of milk and sugar, and a couple of biscuits. She eyed John looking lost next to the table before he finally sat down next to Sherlock.

"John? Tea? No sugar, I remembered this time." She asked, smiling. His hair was all askew, like someone had run their fingers through it. Sherlock was in much the same state. Hard to tell with that head of curls though.

"Yes, thank you." He kept avoiding her eyes, like he had no idea how he was supposed to act. Sherlock caught Mrs Hudson's eye, and winked.

"John broke it off with Mary after he confessed he loved me, and now he's moving back in." Sherlock deadpanned, keeping his face straight, sipping his tea. John choked on his, coughing. He glared at Sherlock, who was ignoring him. "And I've been kissing him all afternoon." Sherlock fought off a grin as John glared daggers at him, his face getting red.

"John? You broke it off with Mary? Well, there goes a spring wedding!" She busied herself with pouring Sherlock another cup, missing John's shocked expression. Sherlock couldn't contain himself anymore, laughing at the look John had on his face. Mrs Hudson was sad there wouldn't be a pretty bride and flowers and a lovely reception. But from the way Sherlock was acting, and the bemused look on the doctor's face as Sherlock continued laughing, she knew everything was alright. Her boys were back together. John's face was hilarious, but he calmed down once Sherlock stopped laughing so hard.

Sherlock had his mobile out, clicking away. He slowly reached over to John without looking, palm up, pale fingers waiting. John stifled a smile, and very casually placed his hand into the detective's.

Mrs Hudson smiled, and began to think that maybe there might be a spring wedding after all.

...

**Meanwhile, that same night...**

**London- CAM Headquarters**

Charles Augustus Magnussen stood at the windowed wall of his bedroom, thirty stories above the streets of London. His gaze vacant, detached, he perused the streets below, the buildings of the skyline. He had just been brought news that displeased him, and the messenger stood quietly at the door to his room, sweating profusely. He could smell the stink of fear practically rolling off the man in waves, and it was a small comfort. He lifted his right hand from his side, and a part of him registered the slight twitch from the man at the doorway. He smiled, knowing it couldn't been seen, and brought his forefinger to tap away at the window.

_Taptaptaptap..._ He watched idly as his fingerprints smeared the clean surface, leaving defined smudges in a small spot. His hands were always wet, leaving little bits and traces of himself everywhere. It pleased him, leaving himself behind wherever he went. Left inside the decisions of corrupt politicians, the despair of an indiscreet housewife of a millionaire, the violation of trust from a clergyman; Charles Augustus Magnussen had snaked his way inside of it all. And there he made his living, feeding like a shark from the blood spilled by secrets. Secrets that everyone held. Everyone.

The greatest enjoyment he got was finding that weakness, those secrets. The first time he twisted the blade on an asset was the sweetest. He held the knowledge best suited to hurt thousands, and he wanted more. Always more. And he knew the man who held all the secrets he could ever want. The one man just out of reach. Who had just slipped away a little further from his grasp, though he had yet to know it.

The little tidbit of news his spy had brought him put an unexpected hiccup into his plans, potentially putting them on hold indefinitely. It seemed his one piece of leverage up the chain to his target had just broken, a weak link. The failure of the woman known as Mary Morstan to keep the heart of one Dr Watson was unexpected, to say the least. No matter, he would find another way. Some other weakness to worm his way into the protected circle around his target.

Charles Augustus Magnussen, the Napoleon of Blackmail, wanted the secrets kept by the man who was whispered to be the physical embodiment of the British Government.

Mycroft Holmes.

And he would do anything to acquire him, and his secrets. No matter who he burned in the pursuit.


	14. Chapter 14 As far as YOU want

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but he owns me!**

** WARNING: This chapter gets explicit. And very detailed. This chapter is the only one so far I'd rate M, so I'm not changing the story's overall rating. Please enjoy if you're feeling brave! Reviews make me happy!**

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><p><strong>Chapter Fourteen <strong>

**"As far as you want"**

John lifted his head from his arm, realizing he'd fallen asleep sometime after eating the sandwich Mrs Hudson had made him. He was still at the table, and his back and neck were complaining loudly, telling him he'd been there for a while. The flat was quiet, a fire burning low in the hearth. Gentle pops and sizzles from the fire was the only noise, and Sherlock was no where in sight.

John lifted his arms and stretched up, his back popping, muscles loosening. Used to be not that long ago he could sleep anywhere and wake up refreshed, whether it be a sand dune in a frigid winter desert, or in a creepy morgue while Sherlock and Molly tore through evidence on a corpse. The last couple of years had been hard on him, his usual exercise chasing after criminals being in short supply. Catching the time on his old scratched up watch, John groaned. It was well past midnight; he'd slept at the table for a few hours. Wondering why Sherlock or Mrs Hudson hadn't woken him up, John stood unsteadily and went looking for his flatmate. Or his, well, _boyfriend? significant other? Doesn't matter, figure it out later..._

The lights were off in the front room, but the fire cast enough of it that he could see his bag was gone from the couch. Forehead crunching, he pondered where it went. Upstairs in his old room? Mrs Hudson putting his things away? He turned towards the door, intending to find out and hit the sack.

He got to the threshold before a faint sound caught his attention. Was it his name? It had come from down the hall, near Sherlock's room. There was a very faint glow coming from his bedroom, the door open partway but the light was too low to tell if it was Sherlock. It came again, and was definitely his name. Suddenly nervous, John wiped his hands on his trousers and waited, unsure of what to do. His head went from foggy with sleep to brilliantly clear, adrenaline coursing through him. He felt that nameless beast stir inside, a faint flick of heat catching him unawares.

"John, stop being ridiculous."

Definitely Sherlock. John felt stuck, his feet glued to the floor. He literally did not know what to do, let alone how to make his feet move. He thought he heard Sherlock sigh, as if exasperated. Which he most likely was. A shadow moved in the dim light, and he thought he saw Sherlock's silhouette briefly framed by the door. John swallowed, certain the other man could hear him. He found one foot lifting, then the other, until he was slowly moving towards that voice. Pulled to that voice.

_Oh God... breathe John breathe!_ His lungs were burning; no, every inch of him was slowly burning, like the fire in the hearth. Blood rushing in his ears, fingers tingling, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. That nameless beast he was one day going to name _lust _growled in the depths of his soul, and it was if it reached out, and nudged the door open all the way.

The small desk lamp in the far corner of the room glowed dimly, casting enough light for him to see the layout of the room. The shadow he knew was Sherlock stood at the end of the bed, his shoulders relaxed, hands tucked into his pockets. John breathed deep, and held it briefly before letting it out. He stood there, and waited. He thought he was feeling terror, but his hands were steady, his body well-adjusted to it, even after the last few years of gentle living.

"Come to bed John." It was a snap of electricity across his synapses, _ricocheting_ into his limbs, his heart. John found himself smiling, his fingers curling in, relaxing. He wanted his hands somewhere for certain, but he had enough of his faculties intact that he knew better than to rush _anything._ For both of them.

John stepped into the room, and silently shut the door behind him. There was a lock on it barely used, and he forced it shut, uncaring if he wouldn't be able to open it in the morning. He walked to the corner of the bed, stopping. He was within arm's reach of Sherlock now, and he could hear him breathing.

"Come to bed? Sleeping?" He asked quietly, needing to know what Sherlock wanted, what he intended. John's caution was warring with that fire beast called lust, and Sherlock's answer would determine who won.

Sherlock's answer was subtle, but very clear. He stepped to John, his hands finding their way to John's sides, running them down to his hips. His head came down, and John felt those very soft curls brush against the side of his face. Sherlock's voice whispered into his ear, his breath teasing, that deep voice making him shiver in response. "Sleeping...eventually." His lips found the soft skin below his ear, warm and firm.

Desire defeating caution in the battle for John's choices, he reached for Sherlock in the dim light. Hands catching at the front of Sherlock's shirt, John held him tight, seeking out his mouth with his own. Their lips sealed together, tongues clashing. John heard a ripping noise, and felt tiny impacts on his chest... the buttons from Sherlock's shirt bouncing off him as it ripped. The temperature in the room was rising, building off the heat between them. Sherlock gasped as John touched his bare chest, skin jumping beneath his fingertips. John pulled at the shirt, ripping it further and yanking it off his lover's body. He didn't care where he threw it, as his hands were too busy rushing over lean muscles, tight smooth skin...

John was swimming in a dream of disbelief - that this was real, that it all felt _so_ _good. _He felt like a fool for being afraid; he wanted more. Sherlock's hands, his fingers tugged lightly at John's own shirt, lifting it from the waistband of his trousers. Every move this man made drove him past the edge of sanity. He was more aroused than any other point in his entire adult life. Nimble fingers unbuttoned his shirt, without Sherlock once taking his mouth from John's. It wasn't until the cooler air of the room hit his own naked torso that he drew in enough air to say "Slow... down."

Panting hard, Sherlock lifted his head, and whispered into John's mouth, "Why? Feels so good..." His lips went for John's throat, nipping and licking his way down to his shoulder.

"Too good... Sherlock!" John groaned, and caught at Sherlock's hands as the man zeroed in on the top button of his fly. "This will be over real quick if you keep this up!"

Sherlock stilled, his fingers pausing just as that first button popped free. Lifting his head from John's shoulder, he lightly kissed at John's mouth in tiny, easy kisses. His hands weren't moving, but they weren't leaving either. John struggled to slow down his heart rate, and lifted his hands away from Sherlock's.

"How far do you want this to go, Sherlock?" John struggled to speak, holding tight to his control. Sherlock stopped kissing him, lifting his head slightly. From the faint glow from the lamp, John could see his lover crinkle his brow, as if he was actually debating it.

"I don't understand. How far does this sort of thing usually go?" Sherlock asked. John wanted to scream. _He is completely serious, dear God..._

"Have you EVER done this before? With anyone? Male, female, whatever?" John had to know, it was driving him insane. Being this restrained was killing him; he hadn't felt passion like this since he was a very young man. And feeling it again on the shady side of forty was making him rue his self-restraint! He about lost his tenuous hold on it when he realized Sherlock was idly dipping his fingers in and out from behind his zipper. Close enough to touch, but not quite there...

"I know the mechanics of intercourse, if that's what's worrying you, but as for actually doing 'this'... No. Never." Sherlock's voice was hesitant. "Is that not good?"

John laughed, and reached for Sherlock, his arms going around the taller man's neck. "It's all good. This goes as far as you want, Sherlock. Tell me." He stood on his toes, kissing Sherlock's neck.

"I want to touch you...everywhere." John's whole body shook once, but Sherlock wasn't done. "I want to make you _happy_, John." _Happy, oh I'm happy alright... ooooooooohhhh he means..._ John's heart rate exploded, and he absolutely couldn't find the air to breathe. All he could do was catch Sherlock's eye, and nod very slowly. Sherlock moved himself towards the bed, and sat on its edge. His fingers still had a grip on John's fly, and John moved with him, finding himself standing between the younger man's knees. He gulped in air, and he started to shake, shivers of abject terror, crazy disbelief, and overwhelming lust chasing each other across his whole body. It was intoxicating, and he lost all semblance of control the second Sherlock grabbed the zipper tab and started pulling. _Yeesssss..._

"Oh God... Sherlock." John's head fell back, and he closed his eyes. His hands went to Sherlock's shoulders, and held on for dear life. Any thought of anything ever going slow from that point on didn't exist. Sherlock was pulling down that zipper, and each tooth releasing was a pleasure and a torment all in one. He was heavily aroused, straining to break free, and his fingers dug into Sherlock's lean shoulders. Finally, his erection was freed, Sherlock tugging his underwear out-of-the-way. Long, strong fingers ghosted around his groin, coming close then flirting away before touching him directly. John moaned, the cool air of the room a harsh contrast against the heat pouring off of him. Sherlock leaned forward, and kissed just below his navel. John wanted to cry, he literally wanted to cry in that moment. Sherlock's hands drifted closer, closer, then like a dream slipped around him. Both of his hands gripped, gently at first, then tighter, making John jump. At that same second, Sherlock kissed him again, a little lower.

John let his hands drift up, and dug deep into Sherlock's hair. He just barely managed to keep his grip from being too tight before Sherlock kissed him just above his groin, tongue licking out between his lips. He began to move his hands, hesitantly at first, then as John moved with him, with more confidence. Up and back down, tight then loose, Sherlock quickly learned what got the best reaction from his doctor. It wasn't until Sherlock's mouth was _right there fuck yes there! _that John screamed, strangling the sound behind clenched teeth. Sherlock moved his mouth, his hot wet mouth right over the head of his cock, and sucked gently once before lifting away. His hands worked that perfect rhythm he'd found so easily, making John cry out softly each time he started over. His mouth, his tongue would randomly appear, wrap themselves around his length, sucking him in deeper each time. Sherlock tormented him like this for an eternity, or so it seemed. It could have been minutes, or hours, John couldn't tell, nor care. John was so close, this perfection he was experiencing dragging him to the edge, his climax was _there! _

His climax exploded behind his eyes like a supernova, his hips jerking, and he came in a great wave, letting it wash from the opposite ends of his body to crash together in his center, spilling forth from him in long, deep spurts across Sherlock's hands and arms. John's legs lost all ability to support him, and he leaned what was left of himself on Sherlock. Gasping for air, body deprived of oxygen, sparks of pleasure erupting inside his brain, John Watson was utterly slain by this man who held him up, smiling against his bare stomach.

John didn't know how long Sherlock held him up, one arm wrapped tightly around his hips. He came back to reality slowly, and he realized Sherlock was wiping them both off with the remains of his shirt. "Oh God, Sherlock..." He leaned down, and lightly kissed him on the top of his head.

"You keep confusing us, John. Understandable, I suppose." Sherlock sounded smug, like he'd just solved the world's toughest case and then shown off on national television making the NSY look idiotic.

John laughed, and gingerly stepped out of his trousers and underwear. He scooped them off the floor, and tossed them towards the hamper.

"What about you, Mr Holmes?" John asked, totally uncaring he was standing bare-assed naked in front of Sherlock. Well, he had socks on, but the floors were cold. Sherlock was staring at him, and John felt a frisson of response, much to his delight and surprise.

"Time to sleep, yes? Isn't that what usually happens after an orgasm?" John couldn't figure out if Sherlock was being serious or not.

"Ummmm, usually both partners have one of those, you know." John was swaying on his feet, and exhaustion was dragging at his brain, making him want to giggle. It was so surreal, having a conversation about sex with Sherlock, especially after Sherlock had just put his hands and mouth all over him...

"Well, considering you're about to pass out on your feet, my dear doctor, let's worry about me tomorrow. Come here." Sherlock snagged his hand, and he stood, reaching behind him to drag down the covers.

"What? Oh." Sherlock tugged, and a very unresisting John fell into the warm softness of Sherlock's bed. He crawled until he found a pillow, realising in the back of his brain that Sherlock must have put new sheets on the bed while he was sleeping in the kitchen. The light clicked off in the corner of the room, and he heard drawers opening and shutting somewhere nearby. Then he felt the weight of Sherlock laying down, the blankets floating over them both. The last thing he remembered before sleep snatched him under was the weight of a strong arm wrapping itself around his hips, and a brief kiss on his forehead.


	15. Chapter 15 No morning quite like it

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me. This is really just the first half of this portion of the story, the rest shall come soon. Here is the villainy I promised, hopefully it will be worthy of our Great Detective. Please, enjoy! And review!**

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><p><strong>Chapter Fifteen<strong>

**"No morning quite like it"**

Detective Inspector Lestrade was surrounded by a war zone. Not that he'd actually been to one, but he'd seen enough on TV to know that if he was ever to call a crime scene a war zone, it was here and now.

They were in an abandoned warehouse district on the shore of the Thames, the buildings around them decrepit and crumbling. The buildings were really just shells, some with roofs and walls, others with just the bare support structures on cracked foundations. It looked like a dead forest of concrete trees, with alleys and streets littered by rubble and debris. Having been abandoned for the better part of twenty years, the degenerates of the city had spread through the area like a plague, destroying anything that remained. And even they had eventually moved on, as the buildings and walls around them became condemned death traps, too dangerous to provide shelter during the harsh, wet winters. This area was so off the beaten path, forgotten by the world, that it had literally taken it exploding in the middle of the night for people to remember it was there.

There was a faint stink of gunpowder and sulfur hanging on the cold autumn air, and the wind howling through the walls of the warehouses moved the spent shells that littered the ground. There were so many of them the ground seemed to glow a weird bronze color in the sunlight. Bullet holes by the thousands decorated the remaining walls, scorch marks from explosions running over the ground, up walls, concrete dust blowing in the cold winds. The neighboring areas had reported hearing what sounded like thunder coming from the abandoned properties, that went on for the better part of two hours. It wasn't until the orange glow of fires were spotted by a patrol car sent to investigate that anyone even took the reports seriously. That officer had called it in, saying it sounded like a massive gunfight was raging inside the grounds, and that he needed immediate backup.. mainly because he had no idea how to get into the gated off area. The grounds had been overgrown by trees and bushes, the one remaining road reduced to a gravel memory twisting through the wild growth. So that one officer was forced to stand and watch as the horizon lit up again and again from the fiery shockwaves that shook the trees, and made the earth tremble beneath his feet. He had reported it all back over the radio, and Scotland Yard had emptied as fast as possible. By the time reinforcements had arrived, it was well past four in the morning, and it then took another hour to get all the emergency vehicles into the complex. Even then, the responders had to go on foot, as there was no place left in the massive complex that a vehicle could drive over.

The commotion had stopped as the dozens of armed officers had finally breached the outer buildings, dying away impossibly fast, smoke still blowing in the wind that came off the river. They had seen no one, heard no signs of people - there had been nothing to explain the craters in the ground, the spent shell casings. And once the sun rose, there was nothing to explain the blood.

Great pools of it congealed in the morning sunlight, the stink of wet blood inescapable. It was everywhere. The smell was almost as bad as the prevalent, disturbing realization that _there were no bodies._ Blood ran as rivers into the low-lying areas, and there were no bodies. The blood seemed to be centered mostly in the middle of the complex, with officers reporting smaller pools and puddles found in out lying areas. The search dogs had found no bodies, and no explosives left in the area. As each tactical team cleared a zone, the forensic teams swept in, only to be confounded by what they were seeing, and on such a large scale. They had no place of origin, nothing to start from. The chaos had appeared out of nowhere, and they had no idea what caused any of it.

Lestrade was at a loss, standing at the outskirts of the main portion of the complex, next to the command tent. People were rushing everywhere. He was just staring at the chaos around him, when he noticed a young forensic tech standing at his elbow, trying to get his attention. He had to report soon to his superiors, and he had no clue what he was going to say.

"Sir? We... we... we found something." He looked pale, and visibly shaken, though that could just be because everyone else was too. But there was something in his eyes, something that said that what they'd found scared him at a new level.

"Show me." Lestrade snapped out of his haze, and followed on the heels of the tech as he scurried through the rubble. He led Lestrade to where about a dozen other people were standing, staring at a wall that had miraculously survived relatively intact. It was facing away from most of the destruction, which would explain why whatever it was had only been found now. Lestrade forced his way through the crowd, and what he saw stopped him cold.

Words written in what looked like blood, by means that bore no relation to human hands. They stood almost two meters tall, the letters swooping and diving among the cracks and bullet holes. How they looked was creepy enough, but the phrase itself is what made Lestrade swear out loud, his hand reaching for his mobile. They practically screamed out from the wall:

_**WE WILL BURN THE HEART OUT OF HIM**_

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><p>Sunrise breaking across his eyes was what woke him at first, followed by the realization that there was a person in his bed. Having never had another person sleep next to him before in his life, it was John's leg thrown over his hip that wakened him all the way.<p>

Sherlock was flat on his back, the warm morning sunlight annoying. Turning his head from the window, Sherlock was able to see John deeply asleep next to him, his head close to Sherlock's on the pillow. His breath was coming out in little puffs across Sherlock's neck, and John had his arms wrapped tightly around his arm and shoulder. It was if he had grabbed onto Sherlock in the middle of a dream, and refused to let go. Sherlock was highly surprised that John laying on him hadn't woken him up sooner. He had known sleeping with someone in his bed was going to be a new experience, and he had figured it was best to get it over with quickly, so as to get used to it faster. Sound logic, if it wasn't for the fact he had wanted him there with him, too.

Sherlock thought about it, and realised that it was actually fairly pleasant. The morning air was cold, and the heat coming off of John was welcome. Somehow the blankets had worked down around their hips, and it didn't look like he could pull them up without dislodging John. He couldn't tell what time it was, but from the angle of the sun, it was obviously very early in the morning still. Far earlier than he usually got up.

Sherlock looked at John's face, relaxed in sleep. He looked younger, his worries gone while he slept. Sherlock knew that some of the new lines around John's eyes were because of him, and what he'd put his doctor through the last two years. Sherlock closed his eyes against the thought, regret grabbing ahold of his heart before he could banish it. He had listened to Mycroft, and not gone back for John. Moriarty's network had people watching him, and seeing John's behavior change, no matter how subtle he might have played his reaction to knowing Sherlock was indeed alive, would have been enough to endanger them all. He knew that, but a part of him had screamed at him to go to John that day in the graveyard. He had been so broken, and John's grief had called to him.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock banished his pain, and let himself feel content in the moment. So very rarely was he allowed to feel anything close to contentment, and this feeling John was generating inside of him was the closest he had ever gotten. Sherlock smiled, and opened his eyes. John was awake, and blinking slowly at him, smiling at him sleepily.

"Hi." John murmured, still tired and sounding like it. One of his hands lost the grip it had on Sherlock's arm, and swept across his bare chest to catch him in a half hug. John snuggled closer, half awake and clearly happy to be where he was. Sherlock marveled again at the wonder that was John Watson; as soon as he had confronted the fact that he loved Sherlock, and that he was attracted to him, his reticence and disbelief faded away hour by hour until they got to the point they did last night. Sherlock had never identified himself as anything; gay, straight, bisexual, asexual. Nothing. It hadn't been important, so he hadn't really thought about it. The chances of him getting involved with another human being to the degree he had with John had always seemed like an impossibility. Yet for all that, Sherlock knew that this shift in John's self-identity couldn't be easy, and he made himself a promise to be diligent with his doctor. Sherlock may never have had sexual orientation issues, but from what he knew of the world, it wouldn't be seamless for John.

Sherlock tipped his head to John, and kissed him on the forehead. Sherlock felt the little tingle of excitement that jumped from his lips to his bloodstream, traveling through his body to all sorts of new places. He had never been this attuned to his body before, it had always been transport, and therefore maintained enough to support his brain. He found that stimulating the body was in turn quieting the storm of thoughts and theories that usually drove him to distraction when he didn't have a case. He knew intuitively that it was a natural progression of the centering affect John already had on him; it seemed that John Watson was destined to be a part of Sherlock forever.

That buzzing little current of excitement was stirring things up inside of him, and he reached down for another kiss before he realized that the buzzing he was hearing wasn't actually coming from inside, but from the nightstand. Sherlock turned is head, and saw his mobile lighting up with numerous text messages, and the screen clearly said he had several missed calls. He'd thrown it on vibrate after John's predawn call, and hadn't changed it back. Sherlock reached out and snagged it off the nightstand. Just as he went to open the screen, another call came through. Seeing that it was Lestrade, Sherlock sighed and answered.

"What?" He growled, annoyed. He had been about to do something interesting, and he didn't need Scotland Yard interrupting.

"Oh thank God! You weren't answering, I was about to send patrol cars out to find you!" Lestrade's voice was angry, and even frightened. He was obviously in an area with a lot of people, but the sound of the wind made it clear he was outside somewhere. He could hear vehicles moving, but it wasn't the sound of London traffic, and it wasn't the garage at the Yard. "Where are you?"

"I'm relaxing in bed, trying to have a good morning. How are you, Detective Inspector?" Sherlock wasn't in the mood to deal with other people now, unless it was John. The anger is his voice made John stir, having fallen back asleep on Sherlock's chest.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?" He murmured, lifting his head. "Is that Greg on the phone?"

Silence was on the other end of the line, and Sherlock knew Lestrade had recognized John's voice. Sherlock sighed, and said sarcastically, "Yes, that was John, yes I'm in bed, and yes it's what you're thinking. WHAT DO YOU WANT?"

A pause, then Lestrade seemed to pull himself out of his shock. "We need you. Now. I'm sending some patrol cars for you. Be ready in twenty minutes. Bring John." Lestrade hung up, not giving Sherlock a chance to say no thank you. Sherlock tossed his mobile back to the nightstand, and heaved a big sigh. He hugged John to him for a moment, regretfully. He had been looking forward to finding out what his morning in bed would have been like today.

"Wake up, Dr Watson. Be thankful it's the weekend, your schedule just filled up. Lestrade has an emergency on his hands, and as usual needs me. Whatever it is big enough for him to send a multiple car police escort. Twenty minutes... you'll probably need your gun."

"What? My gun... yeah I've got it somewhere? In my bag, wherever that went... Twenty minutes! Ugh it isn't even time for breakfast yet!" John was not happy, and Sherlock grinned, his own bad mood evaporating. John sat up in bed, and was struggling to free his legs from the blankets. Totally naked. Except for his socks. Sherlock just propped himself up on his elbows, and watched. He couldn't help himself, and started chuckling. He rolled off his side of the bed, and tugged the blankets off of John. John noticed he was naked at the same time he also noticed that Sherlock was wearing very thin white cotton pajama pants that clung to everything. His eyebrows disappeared into his hairline, and he stared. Hard. Sherlock grinned at him, and said one word that got his attention quickly.

"Shower."

It was a race into the bathroom after that, which ended up being a draw as the bedroom door wouldn't open at first for some reason. Sherlock yanked on the doorknob, and the door gave a screech as it opened.

Sherlock had been busy while John slept at the kitchen table the night before. He had emptied John's go bag, putting his toiletries back where they had once been, before the Fall. His clothes had gone into the dresser Sherlock had pulled from his closet, John's gun nestled in with his socks. John blinked at his stuff arranged neatly on the shelves.

Sherlock opened the water in the shower on high, dropped his pajama pants, and hopped in, uncaring that the water was alternately hot and freezing cold. John grinned, and peeled his socks off before joining his detective. There was enough room for both of them under the spray, and Sherlock watched warily as John reached for the soap and came at him with it. John made a little motion with his hand, and Sherlock turned around. He washed his hair while John made very extra special attention to his back with that soap. Sherlock felt conflicted; he was so unused to anyone touching him, especially in such a personal way, that he felt unnerved. But this was John, the one person in all the world Sherlock trusted beyond measure. And John's hands were getting a reaction from him, a very prompt and independent reaction. Sherlock grinned, and tried to settle the current of unease he felt. _E__mbarrassment? People have seen me naked before... Never aroused, certainly. The body is much the same, isn't it? Why do I not want to turn around?_

Sherlock turned anyway, once John put his hands on his shoulders, and found himself fully under the spray, pressed to the wall. He felt his blood burning, and John took full notice of the state Sherlock was in. His hands followed the musculature of Sherlock's chest, across his smooth stomach, and lower. John stopped though, as he had felt Sherlock tense up slightly, his stomach muscles sucking in. Sherlock cursed himself for showing any reaction. No one, in the entirety of the world, had ever touched him there, where John was going. _Am I afraid? What the hell is wrong with me? I want him to touch me, my body wants it, but I can't seem to let him get there... _

John stopped, and he put the soap back on the little alcove in the stall. He reached up, adjusted the spray, and let the water wash over them both, rinsing the soap away. He didn't avoid Sherlock's eyes, but he made no move to touch him where he had been going earlier. John seemed to know, he just _knew somehow, _what was going through Sherlock's head. And he wasn't upset at all. Sherlock eyed John, slightly disbelieving that anyone could be so understanding, and be so politely subtle about it too. Sherlock relaxed, the tension melting away, and he reached a hand out, and stroked John's cheek lightly with his thumb. John gave him a sweet smile, and they both finished washing off in silence.

They shared sink space, both finishing up at the same time. Sherlock walked back into his room, calling to John, "Your clothes are in here, the dresser there. Your gun's in there too, under the green socks."

"You just moved me right in, didn't you? " John said, smiling to take away any offense. Sherlock winked at him, pulling a suit from his wardrobe.

"No point in pretending you were going to end up anywhere else. My room's next to the bathroom." _And I can't seem to stop wanting you with me..._

Sherlock was in a particular mood, and he dressed himself in blacks slacks, a shirt so white it looked like snow on Christmas morning, and a very form-fitting black jacket. Same leather shoes. Some things never change. He felt more in control in those clothes, more like the old Sherlock. Closing the door, he ran his fingers through his rioting curls, deliberating making it look like he never bothered with product.

Sherlock saw John laughing at him quietly in the mirror's refection, having caught him preening like a teen. Sherlock ignored him, and sauntered out of the bedroom to the front room. He grabbed his kit from the desk, making sure it was fully stocked. His coat was hanging from the door still, and he thoroughly checked to make sure all of his pockets had his additional tools, his knife, and that the items in the hidden pockets were still present. He heard John loading his gun as he came down the hall, coming into the room as he tucked it into his back waistband, under his jumper.

"Just in time; our escort has arrived." Outside the sound of several cars screeching to a halt could be heard, brakes complaining. The lights from the patrol cars could be seen reflecting through the windows. Sherlock twirled on his coat, and draped his scarf around his neck as he took the stairs two at a time out of the flat. John was right behind him on his heels.

They burst out of the front door just as a very startled Sally Donovan was raising her fist to bang on it. Her face went pale, and her eyes slid past Sherlock to land on John.

"Donovan, how lovely to see you after all this time. I see you've been handling my demise better than Anderson." _Though if she doesn't stop drinking herself to sleep every night she won't for long._

Her typical snark wasn't present, as she was still staring at John. Sherlock turned to his doctor, raised a brow at the utter rage and disgust pouring off him, his eyes screaming bloody murder. John looked quite capable of shooting Donovan where she stood. Sherlock wrapped his fingers tightly around John's elbow, and very carefully pulled him past the unmoving Donovan towards the cars pulled up to the curb. Five patrol cars and a personal vehicle had come for them. Lestrade's silver BMW was the one closest, though the Inspector wasn't present. A uniform was behind the wheel, talking to someone on a radio. Sherlock popped the rear door, shoved the livid doctor in the backseat, and said over his shoulder before hopping in himself, "I believe we've been summoned, do stop dawdling." He slammed the door shut, and looked at John.

The shorter man was a bundle of rage and rigid control - the set of his shoulders and the fierce glint of his eyes bespoke the fury that built up in him at the sight of the very irrelevant policewoman. John was trying to calm himself, his fists clenched on his thighs, breathing through his teeth. Sherlock looked back at Donovan, who was slowly coming to the car, and seemed indecisive about getting in the front passenger seat. Sherlock dismissed her, and turned back to John. Touched in no small way by John's obvious distaste at her presence, Sherlock reached out and wrapped his gloved fingers around the clenched fist closest to him. As soon as he took John's hand, John stopped staring at Donovan, and looked at Sherlock. He seemed to remember where he was, and his doctor steadily relaxed. He eased his fingers enough to intertwine his fingers with Sherlock's. Donovan chose that moment to get in to the car, and as soon as she settled in, the patrol cars lit up, and the convoy pulled away from the curb, tearing out of Baker Street far faster than was wise.

Donovan kept herself looking forward, and dialed Lestrade. "Yeah Boss it's me, I've got them both, ETA twenty minutes." She paused, listening, "Yes sir, I'll fill him in."

She hung up the phone, and without daring to turn around, began talking.

"Sometime between midnight and two AM this morning, dispatch received several complaints about disturbances from an abandoned warehouse complex on the south bank of the river, just outside city limits. When a patrol car was eventually sent to the area to investigate, he radioed for backup immediately. He reported seeing what he thought were explosions, heard gunfire, and several other sounds he was unable to identify. By the time reinforcements arrived, and were able to get through to the site, whatever it was, was over. We have confirmed two dozen plus explosions, potentially thousands of rounds fired, and ... well, you'll see when we get there, Lestrade said he'll fill in the rest."

"Where, exactly? You said abandoned warehouses?" Sherlock asked, settling back into the seat, his side along John's, no space between them.

"Yes, south bank, the northern property line on the river..." Sherlock phased out her voice, and he looked in the direction they were heading. The patrol cars in front of them were clearing traffic, and they were making good time through the city. She had told Lestrade their ETA was twenty minutes; and with that Sherlock had a fairly clear idea of where they were heading. And the comment about the police backup finally making it through to the site narrowed it down. Sherlock closed his eyes, and sank deep inside of his mind, and conjured up the maps of London before him, looking down at the city in a bird's-eye view. He flew over the streets of London, swooping and diving towards the river, intuition and memory leading him to his target.

The place they were going was along the south bank of the river, a large multi-building compound once used for storing hazardous materials. Closed over twenty years ago, and left to rot for just as long. The government had eventually stepped in and condemned the property, letting the wildlife along the river reclaim it. The northernmost edge of the property was literally on the river's edge - a twenty-foot concrete and rock wall rose out of the river, the walls of the buildings a dozen feet from the waters of the Thames. The complex spread south away from the river, towards the old access roads, which had been overrun by plant growth, making passage almost impossible by vehicle. _I know this place! _

Sherlock snapped back to reality, aware that John had known he'd "stepped away." He talked over Donovan, who was in the process of saying that the police had no idea what the place had once been, let alone who owned it. Idiots.

"Blackwood Chemical Storage and Treatment Facility, abandoned twenty years ago after the death of the principle owner. Condemned by the government fifteen years ago." Sherlock said calmly, like he was commenting on the weather.

The car went quiet, even the driver casting glances in the rear view mirror at him, like he couldn't believe his ears. Sherlock kept his face innocently serene as Donovan looked over her shoulder at him in shock. John had a huge grin on his face, and started laughing quietly behind his free hand. Sherlock expected a "freak" comment from Donovan, but she cast a wary glance at John and just texted Lestrade, presumably telling him Sherlock's information. John squeezed his hand, and Sherlock turned to his doctor. The look in his eyes warmed Sherlock to his core, and he felt like his was back in that bedroom, holding John.

"I've missed watching you do that," John said softly, voice intimate in the quiet car.

"Don't worry my dear doctor, you'll never have to miss it again." Sherlock's attention was only for the man beside him. He knew Donovan had turned completely around at this point, her face a mask of pure disbelief, but neither man cared.


	16. Chapter 16 Deductions and Declarations

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but he owns my heart! Enjoy the second half of the case chapters, and I promise more villainy, more love, more drama to come. Please leave a review if you're in the mood. Have fun, I know I did!**

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><p><strong>Chapter Sixteen<strong>

**"Deductions and Declarations"**

Sherlock stood alone in the one clear spot in the center of the Blackwood compound, ignoring everyone. Well, less ignoring and more dismissive of things irrelevant to his process. He would look in one cardinal direction before moving to the next, eyes soaking up everything, his mind analyzing and weighing all that his senses picked up.

He had completely ignored Lestrade's attempt to explain anything, and instead stormed into the command tent, poked around until he found the dispatch transcripts from the original radio calls from that morning, and then stalked back out. Acting for all the world like he knew exactly where he was going.

_Which he most likely does! _John thought, following Sherlock through the chaos. Sherlock had ended up beside on of the larger craters, which to John's experienced eye wasn't much. It was about five feet wide and about six inches deep near the point of impact. He'd seen IED's in Afghanistan the size of soda cans that blew a Humvee into shrapnel, so the cops determination of "explosives" and "bombs" were a bit much. _I may not know a damn thing about disarming them, but I've seen enough of the damage they do to recognize the types. Looks like an incendiary, really._

John kept watching Sherlock, and casting an eye over his detective's expression, John knew he had time to sit and relax. Sherlock would glance down at the transcript, and then look off into a certain direction, almost as if he was reconstructing the events as the responding officer reported them. John found a short concrete wall, and luckily there was no blood where he sat. _Miracle, that. There's blood everywhere._ In fact, John saw a very disgusting river of bloody mud oozing next to Sherlock's shoe, and wondered if he should say anything. The detective was ignoring it, like he wasn't fazed by being near the mess. Of course this is the man who whipped corpses with riding crops, so probably not.

Lestrade and his people had followed from the tent, keeping back about twenty feet. Lestrade and Donovan were the closest, watching Sherlock, and then watching John watch Sherlock. John smiled to himself, figuring what was going through their heads. Donovan had most likely seen them holding hands in the car on the ride over, and Lestrade knew he'd been in Sherlock's bed when he'd called. He figured one of them would break down and ask eventually before this day was over. He wondered what he'd say, then figured he didn't have to say anything. Let them think what they wanted; he was happy, so it didn't matter.

The wind was howling through the concrete remnants of walls, funneling in to the open space where Sherlock and John were. The wind whipped at Sherlock's coat and scarf, giving the impression that the detective was wearing a black cape. _Very nice look, actually_. Sherlock was oblivious to the cold, uncaring that his coat was open, flapping away in the wind. His focus admirable, though John did start to worry the man would get sick one of these days. John had to think hard for a minute, and he realized that he had never seen Sherlock sick. High, yes, but never sick.

Lestrade walked over, and sat next to John on the wall. His coat buttoned all the way up, his hands buried deep in his pockets. He cast a glance at Sherlock before turning to the doctor. He started to say something, then changed his mind and went back to watching Sherlock. Donovan had stayed well back, for which John was thankful. He didn't trust his temper around that letdown of a police officer. She had been one of the driving forces behind getting Scotland Yard to turn its back on Sherlock two years before. And he had never forgiven her for it. Anger and disgust boiled up in him now just looking at her. Her willingness, her smug satisfaction, at being able to say "I told you he was a psychopath" to everyone who would listen made him sick with anger. Though the joke was on her - Moriarty was proven real and a villain; Sherlock exonerated and alive; and Sherlock had quite literally turned off the bomb that was going to destroy Parliament just three days ago.

_Dear God, three days ago? Or is it four? Feels like a year! I don't even feel like the same person anymore!_

It all came down to Sherlock, really. Everything revolved around him. John smiled at his thoughts, content to watch his detective as he worked. Glad that he could have this experience again. Sherlock was almost meandering now, his movements light as he stepped around unseen clues amidst the destruction that littered the ground. It was if he were searching for a scent, some piece of evidence he knew was there but couldn't pin down.

"John," began Lestrade, being very careful to not attract Sherlock's attention, "There's something here he needs to see, though I don't know how he's gonna take it."

"What is it?" John asked back just as quietly, trying to keep an eye on Sherlock as he started to wander off, dropping the transcript forgotten to the ground.

"I'll show him once he starts talking to us again - HEY! Sherlock! Where's he going?!" Lestrade yelled as the detective took off like someone fired a gun, disappearing into the ruins.

"Here we go!" John took off after Sherlock, catching up to him at a run, dodging the craters and the pools of drying blood. The others were behind John a fair amount, not as used to Sherlock's unpredictability as he was. Sherlock was heading in a distinctly northern direction, watching the ground for a trail of some kind only he could see. He had a deadly, graceful efficiency as he ran. He easily adapted his strides to the difficult terrain. John kept up with him, and he had a disturbing sense of déjà vu. He flashed back to Afghanistan, a memory of his unit scouring the bombed out remains of a village, after the blood trail of a wounded soldier trapped somewhere in the ruins.

They continued north, towards the river. The smell of the Thames reached them long before they caught sight of the water through the buildings. Great, grey rushing waters raced towards the sea, the current deep and fast beneath the wide surface of the river. Sherlock continued all the way to the edge, where he gripped the remnants of a chain link fence and leaned way out over the river. He stared down, unmoving.

"Jesus, Sherlock! That's a twenty-foot drop!" John resisted the urge to snatch him back from the ledge, not wanting to make the detective lose his grip and fall. Sherlock leaned out farther, and John winced.

"Very astute John, it's almost twenty feet exactly." Sherlock took one last look before he slung himself back to the concrete surface. "And it's also point of ingress and egress for this morning's events."

"There's fresh scrapes and disturbances in the algae growth and moss on the rocks and concrete all the way up the side of the wall. Signs that a boat anchored here as well, for several hours or more. The scrapes are indicative of a good-sized boat, enough for several people and equipment. Though not so large as to be noticed for its size. Not to mention there's absolutely no lighting along this section of the river; a boat could be here from sundown to sunrise and no one would see it. Perfect place to come in at, and to escape from. All you need to know is how to climb."

Sherlock moved in away from the ledge, pointing to the ground. His voice had that excited vibe to it; his words spilling out as fast as his mouth could form them. He was in his element. Sherlock was never more alive than when he had a puzzle to solve.

"Here, look - Disregard the fresh debris, the blood, the spent shell casings - ignore it all, and you can see it. The telltale signs of equipment being assembled, and dragged off in different directions. I can see...one, two... five, possibly six separate tread patterns." He knelt quickly, fingertips to the wet concrete, his eyes lifting to follow footprints barely visible on the ground.

"Here at the river, the destruction is minimal compared to the rest of the area. As if they did what they did here last, as an afterthought, to disguise the fact that this is how they came and went." Suddenly Sherlock leaped at John, grabbing him around the shoulders and turning him in the direction of the closest building, about fifteen feet away.

"Look, John. See the marks on the walls? The small white scuff marks, the holes at regular intervals? How it goes all the way up to the top? This building still has most of its walls, a portion of its roof." Sherlock was close behind John, his voice urgent in his ear, one hand on his shoulder, the other pointing along the wall of the building to the roof. "Look past the bullet holes, see a new pattern. Tell me what it looks like to you."

"Yeah, I see the marks..." John started, as a flash of insight bloomed in his mind. His earlier flashback to Afghanistan triggered another memory; he had been an army doctor in a war in one of the most mountainous countries in the world for three years. He drew a sharp breath in as he recognized the marks. Sherlock's hand gripped his shoulder in approval; he was several steps ahead, making sure John caught up.

"Climbing marks! Anchors, bolts, a belay system for climbing the walls!"

"Exactly! Professionals, every one of them. This was no gang incident, no university prank. This was all planned well in advance. My conclusion is that this is where the explosives and blood vessels were launched from. Highest vantage point, closest to the river. All planned, and precisely executed. In a display so grandiose that it could not be ignored, but done in place that no one would be able to stop them before they finished. All of this was a statement, a declaration. Of ability. It speaks of rage, too. They chose three of the most violent symbols of anger known to man - explosions, gunfire, and blood."

Lestrade and the others had arrived as Sherlock was expounding his conclusions, and there was more people with them than they had started out with. Sherlock's chase to the river had drawn a crowd, and over twenty people were listening and watching. Some were nodding in agreement, others looked lost and confused. Most were just enjoying the show. The legend of Sherlock Holmes had been revived, and there was no better place for those legends to grow than in Scotland Yard. John was caught up in the sheer joy of watching Sherlock work; his mind was a beauty to behold, his genius intoxicating.

"Launched? As in missiles?" Someone had the courage to ask from the crowd. "How do you launch blood in missiles?"

"Seriously not an issue I'm concerned with at the moment, I'm more curious about where their leader went while the minions did all the work." Sherlock started walking off again, though he stopped and said, "Most likely plastic containers designed to shatter at impact past a certain velocity."

He was absorbed in what he saw on the ground, ignoring the crunch of shells under his shoes, and he walked straight through the mass of people like he didn't see them. John stuck to his side like glue, and the crowd parted to let them through. Less than an hour on site, and Sherlock had more information than they'd had since before dawn.

The path only he could see wound along the outside of the property, trees bare of leaves to one side, a wasteland of concrete on the other. He was taking them in a roundabout way back to the front entrance. Everyone trailed behind, not wanting to miss a thing. Lestrade sucked in a breath, and jogged to get up next to John, pulling him a back a few steps so that Sherlock was ahead of them.

"That thing I was afraid to show him is _exactly where he's going._" Lestrade's voice was low, but not low enough. Sherlock whipped his head around, skewered the Inspector with his bright eyes, and then turned back around and began running, leaving everyone behind.

"Shit! Sherlock, Stop! John, this might get really bad." Lestrade's call only spurred the detective faster, and he rounded the wall that held the threat well ahead of the crowd, John and Lestrade struggling to keep up. Sherlock could be remarkably fast when he wanted. They came around the end of the wall, sliding to a stop to avoid running into Sherlock.

He was like a statue; exquisitely drawn from fine white marble, and looked just as cold. The wind moved around him as if it danced, making his hair slash into his eyes, his coat whipping around him like a flag. He stared ahead at the wall, unmoving, uncaring, oblivious to the men standing next to him, the crowd that gathered nearby. John felt shock at the look on Sherlock's face - it was so vacant of life, so void of personality it was if Sherlock wasn't even in his own body anymore.

John moved to Sherlock's side, and turned to see what could affect his detective so deeply. What he saw rocked him like a punch to the jaw.

_**WE WILL BURN THE HEART OUT OF HIM**_

_NO! NOT possible! NO! _John didn't realize it, but he was screaming at himself inside his head. _Only a handful of people know that phrase, know who said it first...!_

One of those people was dead, three stood together before this wall, and the last was a master at keeping secrets. So no one else could know that Moriarty had threatened Sherlock with a variant of those words, the words written in blood before them. John felt like he was back at that pool all over again, strapped down with explosives and waiting to die, taking his best friend with him.

"_**I will burn the heart out of you!" **_Moriarty's ghost screamed at him, threatening to pull him back into a nightmare.

Nothing could be heard but the howling of the wind, the trees complaining in the cold. John was filled by a churning mix of anger and panic, and he swallowed back his fear as he turned to Sherlock. He was still immobile, his bright eyes shining like diamonds in the shifting light.

"Sherlock. Moriarty's dead. He's dead." Having meant it to sound reassuring, it came out as more of a questioning plea. "Sherlock? Hey, mate. Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't answer, didn't even register that John was speaking to him. It was if he couldn't answer, no mind left to respond. John was close enough to him that he could hear Sherlock's mobile begin vibrating in his coat pocket. He didn't move, unaware it was even ringing. It buzzed like an angry bee hive in his pocket before abruptly dying off. The state his lover was in was beginning to alarm him. He was at a loss for what to do, unsure if he was in shock, or if he had stepped away into his mind palace. Lestrade moved towards Sherlock, had outstretched, a look of concern on his face. John stopped him, and gently pushed him back. He was afraid to touch Sherlock while he was in this state, he didn't know how he would react to physical contact. John jumped as his own mobile began chiming loudly from his pocket. Digging it out, he saw it was a restricted number, and he answered.

"Put him on the phone, John." It was Mycroft, of course it was.

"I would, but he isn't really... _here_... right now." John swallowed, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's face. "I can't tell if he is in severe shock or if he is so deep in his mind palace he can't hear us. I'm afraid he might be... gone."

Nothing from Mycroft's end, then a loud sigh of exasperation he didn't bother trying to hide. Definitely brothers, the Holmes men.

"Break him free, John. He'll hear you." A pause, then, "Make him call me once he is able." The line went dead. John put his mobile back in his pocket, and took a deep breath. _Break him free? How the hell...?_

John moved cautiously in front of Sherlock, standing inches away from him. He knew it was dangerous to wake people forcibly from deep mental shocks and fugue states. Many people when awakened prematurely from trances, illness, hypnosis, often emerged instinctively violent. The potential for Sherlock to hurt himself or someone else was there. _Sherlock would never hurt me. Not badly, at least. Punches don't count. Stop stalling, do something. _Sherlock's gaze was locked on the wall, his gorgeous eyes vacant.

"Sherlock? Come back now. Sherlock." He strived to keep his voice calm, soothing. No response. John swallowed, and became acutely aware that people were staring, wondering what was going on. Many had drifted closer, stopping just behind Lestrade and Donovan. They were whispering together, and John caught something from them about calling for 'medics. That stirred John to action; no one was messing with Sherlock. John would bring him back to himself. He wouldn't let his trepidation stop him.

John stepped those last few inches, so close he could embrace his detective. Instead he lifted his right hand, and laid it gently over Sherlock's heart. It still beat beneath his hand, the only sign of life from the man.

"Sherlock. I love you."

Sometimes simplicity works best. His voice had been soft but clear, and it was as if the heavens had decided to assist, the wind dying off just as he said the words. They traveled far enough for everyone present to hear them, in perfect clarity. The whispering stopped, and he knew he had everyone's attention. John ignored them all, and tried to wake Sherlock with sheer willpower.

It was small spark, a tiny flutter under his fingers. John knew some part of Sherlock had heard his simple declaration of love. He saw a change in Sherlock's eyes, as if a summer sun had broken through winter clouds, awareness glowing in the depths. A subtle change, but powerful. Relief swept through him as Sherlock blinked, his eyes lowering to John's. He moved for the first time in an eternity, his arms drifted up, as if lifted by the returning wind. His gloved hands braced themselves on either side of John's face, and he dropped his forehead to John's. His skin was cold, as if he really was a man of stone.

"I... went looking for what I must have... missed." Sherlock whispered, his voice full of something John couldn't name. "Two years hunting, tearing apart Moriarty's syndicate... Only someone who knew him well could have known those words." His voice regained some of its old strength, but he spoke quietly, his voice only for John's ears. "I missed something, and now, you're in danger." Sherlock's eyes drifted shut, and he whispered his next words across John's mouth.

"The only heart I have to burn belongs to you. They hurt you, John - I am destroyed."

Those words cut him like a knife, and made his blood sing with the beautiful pain of them. John didn't care that they had an audience, that people were staring, or drifting closer to get a better view. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's chest inside his coat, and whispered back, "No one can hurt us while we're together." He brought his lips to Sherlock's, kissing him like they were alone in the world, and that there was nothing to fear. Lips clinging, he poured every ounce of emotion he could into that one kiss. His heart roared in triumph as Sherlock kissed him back. John gave up all inhibitions, his arms holding Sherlock tight. The detective returned his kiss with equal fervor.

It wasn't until Sherlock's mobile began vibrating again that they realized they were still out in the real world, and couldn't stay like that forever. Sherlock lifted his mouth away, and cursed. He kept John close to his chest with his right arm, kissed him once on the forehead as if apologizing, and blindly answered his mobile with the other.

"Hello, brother dear... yes, obviously... John is an excellent physician, he knew just what to do..." John choked back a laugh at that, burying his face in Sherlock's scarf. "I'll be giving this matter my full attention, it's already almost solved as it is...of course you'll be following along... feel free if you're bored... bye-bye now."

Sherlock promptly hung up, and dropped his mobile back in his pocket. His arm came back up to wrap around John's shoulder, and he rested his chin on John's temple.

"Sorry... about stepping away like that. I went too deep, too fast, trying to find my mistake. I relived two years in those few minutes, and I was determined to find it. I got caught up. I heard you though. I think I'll always hear you." His voice was low, for John only. Sherlock rarely apologized, but when he did, he meant it.

John's reply was muffled by Sherlock's scarf, but it was clear enough. "No worries, just glad you heard me."

"Hmmm. I think I'll always hear those words from you. Oh, and did you know that about thirty people are staring at us, some of them taking pictures? I'm certain at least a dozen or so are filming us as well." Sherlock sounded like he thought the whole idea of people filming them was absurd, and John groaned.

"Why do you think I'm hiding in your scarf?" John gave up, and started to laugh, shoulders shaking in Sherlock's arms. Sherlock started to laugh as well, deep and glorious as it echoed off the concrete walls around them. They pulled away, grinning at each other like fools and dissolving in giggles.

"Crime scene, stop giggling!" John mock whispered, which just set them both off into more giggle fits. John had to wipe tears from his cheeks, and Sherlock couldn't stop laughing every time he looked at John. People were still filming, and John resisted the urge to start waving. Sherlock didn't care a bit that they were being watched, and reached a hand out to wipe away a lone tear John missed. They calmed down enough after a few minutes of hilarity, and Sherlock turned to Lestrade.

"Lestrade, pick your jaw off the ground, I'm perfectly fine now. Back to work." Sherlock winked at the Inspector, threw his arm around John's shoulders, and walked to the wall, and the challenge it presented.


	17. Chapter 17 Hell Hath No Fury

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me. This chapter has violence. Enjoy, and don't worry, the boys will be back!**

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><p><strong>Chapter Seventeen<strong>

**"Hell Hath No Fury"**

Mary walked down the dark, poorly lit street, confidence in every stride. Most women would hesitate to be out alone this late at night, especially in this part of town. Mary wasn't concerned, the weight of the gun on her hip a familiar presence. She had traded in her brilliant red coat for her dark leathers from her distant life, form-fitting and warm enough to cut back the worst of the wind. Rain fell sporadically, landing on her hair and face. She didn't mind, each cold drop was like a punishment she felt she deserved. She had fooled herself into thinking she could be someone new, someone worthy of obtaining happiness.

Mary knew she was being watched. The eyes she had felt tracing her movements had stayed back far enough for her to know that whoever they were, they were her tail, and not tasked with attacking at the moment. They made no overt moves, merely maintaining the same distance for the last few hours as she went around town, looking for a flat. She had seen the observers switch with new partners several times, attempting to keep her from becoming aware of her tail. She hadn't felt up to playing games though, and had made deliberate eye contact with the newest tail before heading out to the next flat for rent. He had looked surprised, eyes showing clearly that he hadn't thought her skilled enough to realize they were there. As initially scintillating as it may have been, to mess with the people who thought her an easy target, she was growing weary of the game. That's why she had chosen this long street; few residences, mostly closed businesses, and a small park. She knew every inch of it. If they were to come for her here, she would have an advantage. Mary would not die without a fight, and she intended put down as many of them as she could manage. Which would be a lot.

She didn't need her gun to kill. It may have been years since she had taken a life, but she had kept her skills sharp. No matter how careful she had been in establishing this identity, she knew that nothing was perfect, and that her enemies would one day come for her. Mary pretended to have a destination in mind; how she moved, where she looked, how long she paused before moving on would all telegraph her intentions to her followers unless she was careful. They had underestimated her earlier, she would not make the same mistake.

The metal pipe sticking out of that waste barrel, the sharp edges of that picket fence, the uneven pavement on the sidewalk just ahead; all are tools to be used in a fight to the death. Full awareness of your environment will save you every time. Mary could almost hear the long ago voices of her instructors, back when she had first been recruited. The CIA had a sense of humor, and for a long time went out looking for the prettiest, daintiest blondes they could find to make into killers. Very few of those pretty blondes were still alive. She was alive because she was something they couldn't teach: she was a natural-born killer. It wasn't hard for her to take a life, it was hard for her not too. Control was what she prized most. It kept her free. And helped her choose how she was to die.

Mary heard it coming from behind. They were closing fast, two from behind her on the sidewalk, the third ahead and to her left from the recessed doorway of a shop. Their paces were syncing with hers, and Mary struggled not to let on that she knew they were making their move. She could hear the low growl of a high-powered car approaching from behind up the street on her right, and it would come along side her at the same time her three pursuers converged. Unless she moved- _NOW!_

Mary dug deep, and sprinted out from the safety of the sidewalk into the street. She heard curses behind her, and saw a shadow detach itself from the front of the building just ahead to her left. She dodged under the outstretched hand that reached for her, never losing speed. She ran straight for the vehicle, and slid smoothly across the hood as it squealed to a sharp stop. She flew off it in a dead run, heading back at a diagonal towards the far side of the street, going opposite of the way they'd expect her to go. When people run from something, they instinctively run forward, and even the person doing the chasing will subconsciously be expecting that behavior. She capitalized on it, and ran the small park between two large buildings. The trees and unlit spaces would let her whittle down her pursuers and potentially make her escape.

She disappeared in to the black shadows under a large pine tree mere feet ahead of her closest pursuer. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, and she ran full-out for the tree trunk ahead of her. He was steps behind, and she had an image of his hand reaching out to grab her shoulder, her closeness distracting him from where she was leading him. Mary leapt at the tree trunk, and ran rapidly up the hard surface, pushing off and flipping in the air over his head. She kicked out as she flipped, her foot connecting solidly between his shoulder blades. His head hit the tree with a sickening crunch as Mary landed on her feet in a crouch. She didn't pause, two more pursuers were just about to enter the shadows under the tree. She took off again, not even bothering to spare the corpse at the base of the tree a glance. Deeper she ran into the small park, lightly jumping over rocks and fallen branches. She could smell water just ahead, and could feel a change in air pressure signaling a break in the trees. She knew this park well, having walked here many times before. Up ahead was a small stream, with a minor waterfall under a stone bridge in the center of the clearing. The drop from the bridge to the water below was about ten feet, and the stream meandered back into the trees another fifteen feet beyond that. The area around that drop off was well manicured and relatively flat, no obstacles.

They were so close, too close to pull their weapons and fire without giving her a chance to change direction and gain more ground. They would try to tackle her in the open space, counting on the fact that they could probably outrun her in a foot race. She dug deeper, pulled more air into her lungs, dropped her center of gravity and _ran hard_ for the stone bridge the second she broke cover.

They were hard on her heels, and she kept her angle unchanged until she was a foot from the stone bridge. She let them assume she was trying to go over the bridge, not _off the side._ Mary leapt up on to the wall and threw herself into the darkness below, trusting that some gardener hadn't redecorated the landscape since the last time she'd been there. The air felt cool as she seemed to be hanging in suspended time, the place she leapt so dark she couldn't even see the ground. She knew how fast she was going, and how high she had leapt from the bridge; instinct took over, and she made a hard landing on the grass beside the stream, rolling to soften her impact. She didn't stop, running along the stream to the border of the trees.

Mary heard cursing above her as the two men chasing her came up hard against the stone wall of the bridge, and they didn't follow. Mary ran that last distance to the tree cover just as she felt more than heard the bullets race by her head. They were firing blind, the darkness too absolute from their position to see her. They knew what direction she had gone, and seemed determined to empty their guns. Just as she passed into the trees, Mary fell to her knees in the loose gravel of the stream bed, sliding forward like she used to playing softball as a child. She spun around, using her momentum to end up facing back toward her pursuers. Mary pulled her gun, her arm rising up in one smooth motion. She could clearly see where they were on the bridge, the muzzles flashes as they continued to fire over her head was enough to illuminate them in the darkness.

Two shots. That's all she took. All she needed. Empty, harsh silence greeted Mary's ears as she knelt in the wet gravel, her lungs sucking in air, her arm steady and sure as she held the gun up and ready. There was no one else crashing through the trees, no one else charging into the clearing. Nothing. The men were dead, dropped to the stone surface of the bridge, blood and brain running from their ruined skulls. Mary lowered her gun, and exhaled that last breath she'd held as she pulled the trigger.

She sensed it, the presence just out of arm's reach to her side. There was no warning, no hint that she wasn't alone. That she had failed. Mary closed her eyes, and smiled. The click of a hammer being cocked cracked loud in the overwhelming silence, and a soundless roar built up in her ears. _Three put down, better than most could do. End me then. Let it be by a worthy opponent. _Mary's killer leveled the barrel of the gun at her temple, and spoke.

"Hello, Mary. Let's talk."

Mary's eyes flew open, for she heard the voice of Death.


	18. Chapter 18 Mycroft, and Coming Out

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but he certainly owns my heart! Enjoy! Reviews are appreciated, and may I suggest you pay extra special attention to the background info, there's a hint in here about Mary's fate! And for all the followers and reviewers who have taken the time to read my work, Thank you.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Eighteen<strong>

"_**Mycroft, and Coming Out"**_

John was exhausted. So tired he couldn't focus his eyes. He was awake enough to remember that sleeping at the desk in the front room wasn't the most brilliant of ideas. Sherlock was still in his chair, fingers under his chin. Squinting at his watch, John thought that it was either extremely late at night or depressingly early in the morning.

_That's it, I'm going to bed. He hasn't said anything in about two hours anyway_. John struggled to his feet, one arm braced on the desk until he found his balance. "Sherlock, I'm going to bed, I'll see you in the morning before I leave for work."

Sherlock didn't even respond, so absorbed in his mind palace that he probably didn't even register that John was speaking to him. This trance of his was different than the one he'd been in this morning (or was it yesterday?). His hands would occasionally move, as if shifting images around in front of his eyes. And thankfully he was blinking too. John watched him for a few more minutes, appreciating that Sherlock was back to normal. The scare he'd given everyone still made John nervous. Afterwards, Sherlock had been acting extraordinarily normal. Normal for him.

Sherlock had scoured the grounds, determined to find everything he could. John had eventually put his foot down just after lunch. Sherlock was covered in blood, dirt, and smelled of smoke. John hadn't had anything to eat since the evening before. John had gotten a tiny glimmer of satisfaction when Lestrade had sent Donovan out for food. He still checked the food to make sure she hadn't done anything to it. Getting Sherlock to eat when he was working was impossible. Unless you just handed him something to eat while he wasn't paying attention, and he'd just start munching away. John had winced at Sherlock eating his sandwich with hands that had been picking up bloody shell casings all morning, but the man was eating so he shrugged it off.

The sun had been down for hours when Sherlock had paused his mad hunt for evidence, clearly tired, but unwilling to stop. It had taken John to point out that he was too tired to keep going that kept Sherlock from continuing. To everyone's surprise, Sherlock had looked at John, and agreed. Even more surprising was that he hadn't declared he was going to Bart's with the evidence. That had struck John as odd; why wouldn't he go? There had been hundreds of samples and baggies of evidence boxed up and shipped out to the pathology lab at St Bart's. He usually had to be reminded not to open them until after the police had logged them in, the techs needing to smack his fingers.

John hadn't questioned it beyond asking Sherlock if he was sure, that he wouldn't mind going home alone. The second they were through the door, Sherlock had showered, thrown on his oldest night-clothes and robe, and ensconced himself in his chair. John had deliberately not joined him; he'd taken his shower afterwards. Sherlock's hesitancy in the shower that morning had been very clear. John had expected it to some degree, and he hadn't wanted Sherlock to think he was hounding him for anything he wasn't ready for. For all that Sherlock was highly aware of the mechanics of sex, and his willingness to pleasure John, he had obviously didn't know how to handle anything past kissing when it came to himself. Sherlock Holmes was a virgin, to be very blunt. John hadn't much experience with virgins; he had gleefully gotten rid of his virginity in his teen years.

John laughed silently at himself as he walked down to the bedroom. _Look at me acting like I'm the experienced one! I have no more experience being in a sexual relationship with a man than Sherlock has with anyone! We're both virgins this time around. Guess the only difference is I know what I like, and that it's ok to feel it._ John didn't even bother with the light, just peeled off his clothes, tossed them at the hamper, and hopped under the covers. John knew what he shouldn't do; the rest would come with time. Patience and understanding was always the best way to go.

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><p>Sherlock came back from his mind palace as John went bed. His foray this time was more directed, he knew what he needed to find. He knew where he ought to be looking. That day at the chemical facility had been arduous, though he refused to acknowledge it. The threat on the wall, the fires, bullets and blood had all been signs of who was responsible, and why. It was seeing past the chaos to the separate clues that had given him the last piece. The threat wasn't directly for him, it was against the ones he loved. Sherlock was certain that these new enemies would not come at him directly, but sideways through the people in his life. Through John.<p>

_I missed one of Moriarty's disciples. Someone he held close in his confidence, someone who had an emotional attachment to him, or vice versa. It's in the wording of the threat, the violent acts. I just don't know who yet. I need a name. It's revenge. Otherwise these people would've stayed hidden, under the radar. None of it makes sense otherwise._

Sherlock heard the deep purr of the Jaguar as it slowed to a stop outside his flat. A single door opened and shut, and a moment later his brother let himself into the building. Sherlock contemplated heading to bed just then to spite his brother, but he needed to talk to him anyway, so he waited. Sherlock turned to the fire burning in the hearth, wondering what topic Mycroft would bring up first. The doctor, or the disciple.

Mycroft paused in the door, taking off his coat, gloves. He eyed the still form of his little brother, neither of them speaking. Sherlock didn't even cast a glance his way until he sat opposite him in John's chair. Sherlock waited, knowing that his refusal to speak first would make Mycroft come to the point all the quicker. He'd be more of a pain, but it would be over faster. Minutes passed, and Sherlock suppressed a grin as Mycroft finally sighed in annoyance and spoke.

"Did you have fun, gallivanting about the river with your friends? With your Dr. Watson?" So it was to be John first then. Sherlock's involvement with the good doctor must be troubling Mycroft indeed.

"Hhhhmmm yes, 'gallivanting' is exactly what I was doing. Rather fun actually. You should have come, made a picnic out of it. Don't mind the blood, we have biscuits!" Sherlock replied, keeping his voice low, but the sarcasm high.

"Sherlock." His brother's tone was ominous, but Sherlock wasn't fazed.

"Mycroft." Sherlock looked his brother in the eye, and didn't look away. Mycroft's mouth turned down into a grimace, and he was obviously uncomfortable.

Sherlock raised a brow at his brother, and waited. Mycroft's face clearly said he had a lot to say, but didn't want to say it at all. He even started to fidget, his fingers picking at a tiny tear on the arm of the chair. Sherlock was in no mood to hear any lectures from Mycroft about his relationship with John. He had spent two years of his life away from the person he needed most in this world. He now found himself in an impossible reality where that someone loved him. Truly loved him for who he was. Not because he was their child, or a dream of love, or sibling to be tolerated. He found it to be the most precious thing he had ever experienced. And he would die all over again to protect it. Protect John.

"Mycroft. My relationship with John is none of your business. Save the lectures, the warnings, the doubts. You'll make us both happy if you do." Sherlock told his brother, looking him in the eye, gaze unwavering. Mycroft's demeanor settled, and he sighed deeply.

"This is most unusual, Sherlock. Surely you can see why it worries me." Mycroft's voice had changed, quiet in the peaceful silence of the flat.

"Tell me then." Sherlock made it a challenge, and wondered if Mycroft would take him up on it.

"I don't know what to say, truthfully." Mycroft paused, and looked away from Sherlock, to the fire. "I never expected this sort of thing to happen."

"Why warn me against emotional involvement if you never expected me to get involved?" Sherlock almost didn't ask, but he needed to understand. He was having trouble understanding this new relationship himself, as he had never expected it either.

"You frighten me, Sherlock." Mycroft's answer was quietly spoken, as if he didn't want to say it at all. Sherlock had no words, as he had ever heard such a thing from his brother before.

"If you were to lose someone you loved, who loved you back, I'm afraid of what would happen. Your control is sporadic, little brother. There are moments when I see the edge of insanity that accompanies genius. The danger that I fear is what would happen if you were to give your heart, and then have it broken. I thought my fears to be irrational, because you never showed an interest in anyone really. That Adler woman doesn't count, as she was more adversary than lover. The game with her was the attraction of talent and intellect. John is different. He has achieved the impossible. He has gotten you to let him into your heart."

Sherlock had never heard such sentiment from Mycroft before. He felt a flash of unease, for Mycroft's worry too closely paralleled his own. That without John anchoring him, Sherlock would become a monster like Moriarty.

"So you see no happy ending; I'm condemned to be either alone or a monster driven mad by heart-break?" Sherlock's mouth twisted into a bitter smile.

"Will you even have a heart once this is over? Better it would have been if John hadn't wakened it in you. He will be your downfall, Sherlock."

Mycroft paused, weighing his next words. His voice went cold, dangerous.

"Just be careful, brother mine. Madness runs in the family, remember. I will not hesitate to intervene again." Mycroft shifted in his seat, and gave him that sarcastic smile that was never too far from his lips. "Now, on to more pressing matters. Obviously there is a disciple out there that wasn't dealt with?"

"So it seems. I've spent a majority of my time thinking about it today. The only thing I can think of is that I failed to find all of them. I need to see my files." Sherlock told his brother. He ignored the implied threat from Mycroft, and turned off his worries to concentrate on the problem.

"Tomorrow afternoon. My place. I'll send the car," Mycroft stood to go, putting on his coat, picking up his umbrella.

"John as well, Mycroft." Sherlock added.

"Oh yes let's put everyone on the classified access lists! Fine, just let me know when. Try not to get in any more trouble before then, little brother." And so Mycroft left, slipping down the stairs and out the front door. The Jaguar purred to life and stalked out onto the streets of Westminster.

Sherlock turned back to the fire, wishing he could find some warmth from the flames. He didn't like the sensation he was feeling. His failure to stop all Moriarty's disciples could cost John his life. He felt doubt. Doubt and fear.

"Sherlock." John was standing in the door to the kitchen, wearing one of Sherlock's robes.

"John, I thought you went to bed?" Sherlock stood, walking towards his doctor.

"Hard to sleep when your boyfriend and his brother are talking in a small flat with no doors shut." Sherlock couldn't tell if John was upset, he sounded annoyed for some reason.

"Sorry, I thought we were quieter, I didn't mean to wake you." Sherlock was unsure of how he should act. His conversation with Mycroft had unsettled him. He just looked at John, and he had a sudden urge to reach out, to hold him. So he did.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, and rested his head on the other man's shoulder. Sherlock felt better the instant he did, the cold fading away. John returned the embrace, lightly at first, and then when he felt Sherlock sigh and relax into him further, he tightened his hold.

"You won't lose me, Sherlock. Anyone who thinks I'm an easy target will be sorely surprised. I won't let you become the monster that you and your brother seem to think you're capable of being. I won't let you." John said fervently. "And Mycroft is a rubbish big brother, by the way."

"You heard?" Sherlock didn't know whether he was embarrassed or not.

"I heard everything." John hugged his detective tightly, and kissed his neck. Sherlock shivered in response, and John kissed that spot again.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was still sleeping when John's alarm went off. John had been awake for a while, just lying in bed, and holding Sherlock. He silenced the alarm, and carefully got up. Sherlock had been in a mood the night before, after Mycroft left. He hadn't gone back to his chair after John had found him in the living room. He'd come to bed, without a word, and wrapped himself around John. So John had just held him, both of them saying nothing, until the younger Holmes fell asleep. John's anger at Mycroft had just gotten more fuel for the fire. The elder Holmes had been outright damning of Sherlock's attachment to John, even going so far to threaten him with some reprisal if the relationship went badly.<p>

_What the hell did he mean by intervening again? Madness runs in the family? He ever thinks about meddling with Sherlock, he won't have time to worry about a disciple, he'll be worrying about me._

John got ready for work, being careful not to wake the sleeping detective. Sherlock usually never slept during a case. But then he never had anyone to sleep with before either.

_Today is gonna be difficult. Mary will be there. Well, she might be. Somehow I don't see her working with me anymore, not after this week. I wouldn't blame her one bit if she left. Hell, she might even come to work just to make me pay for how I treated her. Should I even be going to work? What about Sherlock?_

John dressed, grabbed his work bag from the corner, and paused at the bedroom door. He looked at Sherlock, still sleeping with his face buried where John had laid. John made up his mind, and went back to the dresser, and pulled out his gun. It was still loaded from the day before. He grabbed an extra clip, and secured them both in the holster he so rarely used. He tucked the holster into the waistband at the small of his back, glad he was wearing a belt. His jacket easily concealed it all.

_I am no one's easy target. I won't let anyone hurt Sherlock. They come for me, they'll have a nasty surprise. Today is my slow day, I'll pop in, cancel the rest of my week, see what the situation is with Mary, and then come home. I've got plenty of vacation days built up._

John took one last look at the sleeping Sherlock, wishing he could stay. Responsibilities calling him out the door, John left, Sherlock not having stirred once.

The trip to the office was uneventful, John keeping an eye out the cab windows the entire way. A part of him felt silly, but he knew from experience that not being ready for danger was the fastest way to die. And dealing with someone who was close enough to Moriarty for the Holmes' brothers to call a disciple? Better to think them very dangerous indeed.

John got in well before his first appointment, and went to his office. The outer nurse's station was dark. There was no sign of Mary, and John felt equally relieved and saddened by that. He dropped off his bag, and went down the hall to the clinic's main reception office shared by all the resident doctors. The secretary was in, and the nasty look she didn't bother trying to hide made it clear that the news of his split with Mary had spread already. The television was on in the corner of the room, on mute, cycling through the morning news.

"Mary quit. Left a message this weekend on the answering service." He hadn't even the chance to ask, and the scorn dripping from the woman's voice was caustic.

He wouldn't even try defending himself. He had treated Mary badly, and he had nothing to say that wouldn't come across as insensitive. So he just nodded, and ignored her attitude.

"Cancel all my appointments for the rest of the week, and I'm assuming you already canceled them for today since Mary left." He stated, and she nodded, mouth tight. "I'll be taking a week's worth of leave then, I'll be back next Monday. Have a wonderful day." She nodded once more, and went tapping away at her keyboard, ignoring him like he didn't exist.

John turned to leave, but paused as his eyes noticed something on the television screen. There was no sound, but the image was fairly self-explanatory. It was a video of Sherlock and John kissing in full view of Scotland Yard, obviously taken by one of the people at the crime scene yesterday. It looked like a kiss straight from a movie, all impressive shot angles and melodramatic scenery. And from the time of morning, it had obviously been in the news cycle several times already. They just kept playing it on repeat while presumably an anchor was chatting about it that he couldn't hear. Seeing the kiss from the outside was a weird experience, and he found himself getting red in the face at the sheer amount of passion rolling off the screen.

_Oh wow. That's equally embarrassing and incredibly hot. Coming out on national television._

Tearing his eyes away from the image of him and Sherlock lip locked, John saw the news ticker at the bottom of the screen. There was a brief line about a shootout at a local park in one of the rundown parts of town, multiple casualties, before the ticker started listing all the cases Sherlock had helped the MPS with over the years. John looked back at the picture of them kissing, and shook his head in rueful amusement before leaving the reception area. He heard the secretary gasp loudly as she saw the television screen once he left.


	19. Chapter 19 Molly, Lady M, and the Morgue

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me! Please enjoy, and patience shall be rewarded! This chapter was hard to write, it hit a little close to home. Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Nineteen<strong>

"_**Molly, Lady M, and the Morgue"**_

Sherlock walked into the pathology lab at St Bart's, looking for his favorite lab partner. The evidence sent over from the crime scene yesterday were stacked in boxes along the far wall, littering the tops of some of the tables.

Molly was attempting to organize the mess, trying to find places for boxes that didn't obscure equipment. Her long hair pulled back into a low tail at the back of her head, and her lab coat was a large one today, almost down to her ankles. The engagement ring still graced her left hand, winking in the sun from the big windows. Sherlock let the door swing shut behind him, and just watched her. Molly didn't know he was there, as her attention focused on the television that was on in the side office. She kept putting the same box down on the floor before picking it up again. She did this a few times before Sherlock wondered what in the world could be so interesting on the television. He walked up next to her, and bent over a little to see past the door jamb. He rolled his eyes, and sighed.

"Do they really have nothing better to report on the news that a man kissing another warrants its own segment?" Sherlock asked, leaning back on his heels and looking at Molly.

Molly shrieked, and dropped the box on the floor. The rattle of shell casings was clear through the sides of the box.

"Sherlock! When – when did you get here?" She spun around, her hand at her throat, face going red.

"Just now." Sherlock bent over, picked up the box, and spilled the contents across the tabletop. It was just the shell casings, and not what he wanted to see first. "Where's the samples from the explosives?"

"Over here, um, lemme get them." Molly lightly ran around the end of the table, and scooted out a box from the middle of the stacks. Sherlock tossed the box into the corner, and nudged the baggies containing the shells out-of-the-way. Molly came back with the box, and he took that one and spilled it out as well. The smell of burnt air emanated from the tubes, and Molly crinkled her nose at the stench. Sherlock tossed away the other box, and snatched up a handful of tubes.

He shucked off his coat while switching the tubes from hand to hand, and hardly noticed when Molly took it from him and hung it up next to hers. She followed him right along to his favorite microscope, and sat right next to him as he turned it on. The screens for the camera lit up as well, and he turned on the outside network connection from the computer terminal attached to the system. Molly was fascinated when he pulled up a login screen for a network she had never seen before. She got a brief flash of something she would've sworn said MI-something before he typed his password lightning fast and he was in.

"You just connected this to something in the government's databases, didn't you?" Molly asked, voice hushed like she was afraid someone would overhear. Sherlock gave her that little sideways glance that always made her brain sputter, and said all innocently, "I haven't a clue what you're talking about."

She just sat there and watched him work, having none of her own to occupy her time for some reason. Her morning had been cleared, and she wasn't expecting some cadavers for a few more hours, as they were still being processed at the crime scene. Donovan had said it was a shootout at a local park. She always enjoyed watching Sherlock work, even when he was being particularly annoying. It wasn't because she'd been in love with him for ages either. She liked watching Sherlock work because he was all economy and efficiency. He knew what he was doing, and he did it well. Over the years working with him, Molly had found her own skills improving, just by picking up his little habits.

"You cleared my morning for me, didn't you?" She asked after a few minutes, watching as he prepared another slide. He had gone through half a dozen tubes, prepping the slides before he even started looking at them. She took the tubes from him one at a time as he finished, sealing them and putting them aside. He didn't even have to look up for a new slide before she was putting it in his hands. It was the practice of long years in the same lab, and she fell right back into the comfortable habit without even realizing it. Most people would have thought her attitude demeaning, but Molly was never more comfortable when in her lab, doing her work. Her nervous smile settled into a real one, her confidence came out, and she was quick with answers to questions. It was only when other people encroached on her territory that Molly lost her confidence. And Sherlock always valued her work, even if he had never shown it before. The trip out last week helping him solve cases had been a fantastic day, as she got to see how he worked outside of Bart's. When Sherlock came out of his own head space to be kind, he did it well.

"I did, yes. This is too important for me not to have quality help." Sherlock slid the first slide under the scope, and he adjusted the zoom until the image came up on the screen clearly. He stared at it, making notations in his pocket notebook. He pulled that slide out, and another took its place. Again he took more notes, and reached for the next slide.

"You ever going to tell me how you do that?" Molly queried, handing him a slide that was just out of reach.

"Nope." Molly laughed, and Sherlock cast her that sideways look again. It was rare indeed to hear Molly Hooper laugh, and Sherlock squirreled away the sound into his mind palace.

They spent the next hour in companionable silence, Molly assisting Sherlock without asking. Sometimes he would get up, and wave her in to look into the scope herself. Not that she had much experience at all with this sort of evidence analysis, but he would ask her what she saw, and then either scribble away at his notebook, or scoot her out of the chair and take over. Molly didn't mind, it was more interesting than cutting up dead gangbangers downstairs. She even prepped vials of samples from the evidence tubes, for use in the mass spectrometer. She figured he would want a full workup of the evidence. He nodded in approval as she started the process, and bent back to his slides.

Sherlock had saved up all the screenshots of the slides, and he opened up a file and rapidly included his notes. He reached out, grabbed the spectrometer readouts, and typed in those results as well. Molly watched in fascination as he sealed it all into a password protected data packet, and emailed the whole thing to someone with a government address. She pretended not to see, and he pretended that she hadn't. Molly figured it was Mycroft. Only made sense.

"What did you figure out? I saw your face there at the end, you had an 'a-hah!' moment." Molly was curious, having contained herself as long as she could.

"Triethylaluminium." Sherlock said, getting up and reaching for the next box of evidence, digging through it. "A type of organometallic compound. It's a pyrophoric material. Used in incendiaries. I sent my results to see if there is a corresponding formula in the databases that can be traced. Lots of arms manufacturers have to list their formulas with government agencies around the world for antiterrorism purposes. Particularly in the United States and the United Kingdom. "

Sherlock found the blood samples, and brought them over to the scope. Molly had already cleared away the explosives evidence, putting them in one of the empty boxes.

She handed Sherlock a new pair of gloves, and took the old. Tossing them away, she saw the television was back to broadcasting the kiss that had so absorbed her that morning. She hadn't been surprised, as she had known as soon as Mrs Hudson had when John broke it off with Mary. Mrs Hudson had called as soon as she had settled in for the night, excitedly jabbering away. Molly had been thunderstruck, as she had never expected anything close to this from John. He had always been so steadfastly straight. She had never gotten a vibe from Sherlock that he was interested in men, but she had never gotten a vibe that said he liked women either. Ever. But his attachment to John Watson had been obvious, and Molly had always believed that love could do anything. If love could make John Watson fall for a man, and if love could make Sherlock Holmes be in a relationship with anyone, who was she to judge? Her heart was a bit tender, but all she had to do was twist her engagement ring around her finger to feel better. The next day, she had gotten an equally excited text from Lestrade, full of CAPS and exclamation marks. He had called Sherlock, and John was in bed with him. That was a little harder to fathom, but then twitter and Facebook blew up a few hours later, with posts and pics of Sherlock kissing John at the crime scene. Or was John kissing Sherlock? It was hard to tell, and she leaned a little more to see the television better.

Sherlock sighed loudly, having seen where her attention had wandered. Molly stopped leaning, and looked at Sherlock, a blush creeping up her neck and across her cheeks.

He just went back to the work, and Molly sneaked another peek at the television.

* * *

><p>John left his office, bag over his shoulder. He had typed up his unresolved notes from the previous week, tidied, and locked everything up. He pulled out his mobile, and began typing.<p>

**I'm done at work. Took the week off. Where are you? -JW**

Not even a minute passed before he got a reply. It wasn't typical for Sherlock to reply so fast, but things hadn't been typical for a while.

**Lab at Bart's. Coming here? -SH **

** On my way. Don't worry, I've got my gun. -JW**

Nothing for a moment, then he got a reply.

**Very practical, my dear doctor. Do hurry. –SH**

John grinned, and pocketed his mobile. Walking out of the clinic, he went to the corner and waited for a taxi to come by. The sun was out, but the air had a nasty chill to it, and he hunched his shoulders against its bite. Then something across the street caught his eye, and he stood up straight in surprise.

_Mary? Is that…? _There was a woman standing across the street, her back to him as she talked on her mobile. She had a hat on, the same color as Mary's, and the same kind of scarf. He tensed up, wondering if it was her, and what he should do if it was. John relaxed, and realized it wasn't. Mary had short, bright blonde hair, this woman had long red brown hair peeking out from under her hat and over the collar of her long black coat. It was the way she was standing that had triggered his flash of recognition. Same way of holding herself, the set to the shoulders. The hat and scarf must be popular.

John scolded himself for being silly, and flagged a taxi coming down the street. He hopped in once it stopped, and gave the address to St Bart's. He took one last look at the woman on the corner, for some reason still disturbed by her presence. He was at the wrong angle to see her face, and he lost sight of her as the cab pulled away.

* * *

><p>The woman on the street corner hung up the phone, and tucked it away. She watched the cab carrying John Watson as it left, presumably heading to St Bart's where she knew Sherlock Holmes to be. She pulled the hat and scarf away, and let the cold wind lift her hair.<p>

_How sweet, he's off to join his lover. Hope they treasure this time together, it won't be for much longer. Soon it'll be all over, for them and for me. _

She walked down the street, to where her people waited. The black town car hugged the curb, giving off a subtle predatory vibe. The two men standing in black suits next to the vehicle probably didn't lend it much of an innocent look, but she wasn't worried. John Watson's observational skills weren't to the same caliber as his partner's, so she needn't worry that he'd notice the car, or remember it. She had wanted to see him close up, her curiosity too strong. It had always been her one failing, being too curious. Got her into lots of trouble. But that was ok, she adored trouble. It was part of the reason why she wore the hat and scarf. Just to see if he would notice. To her delight, it appeared he had noticed them, and he kept trying to see her face. It was a good thing he had finally decided she wasn't Mary, else she might have had to move her timetable up. Couldn't rush revenge, otherwise what do you have to look forward too once it was over?

She had wanted to see him, the man who made the great Sherlock Holmes open up. Pictures never really did a person justice, and she'd had enough of the flat surveillance pictures. Though the video of the two men kissing at the scene of her midnight party had been delightful. She figured they had appreciated her artwork, and her little love note. So much blood, so many people to threaten. From the descriptions of people's' reactions to her message, she knew she had gotten her point across.

The man closest opened the rear door without a word, and she slid into the lush interior. The door shut behind her, closing out the sounds of the outside world. Her henchmen got in, and she nodded for them to drive away from the clinic.

She watched the streets of London flash by, and she tugged off her gloves. The band of gold on her finger flared in the sun, and she lifted her hand. The ring she wore wasn't hers; it had been his. The love of her life, her sole reason for existing, and the man she had lost to Sherlock Holmes. The signet ring was simple, gold and obsidian. The only decoration it had was an ornately stylized letter M.

"My Lady? Where to?" Her driver asked, respect clear in his voice.

"To the prison, where my dear husband is being held. Time to go see him before I set things in motion."

"Yes, my lady." The car growled as he hit the accelerator, and she relaxed into the leather seats, idly twirling the ring around her finger.

Soon it would start, and the people of London would share her pain.

* * *

><p>John took the familiar route to the pathology lab, and realized as he did that it had been years since he'd been there. The last time had been when… John's stomach rolled at the memory, and he had to stop in the hall outside the lab as a wave of sick terror washed over him. The last time he had been here was the day Sherlock Fell. The day he died. John swallowed, and closed his eyes. A memory of blood on the wet paving stones, the rain dripping into his eyes as he stared at the corpse on the ground, broken and limp….<p>

_Sherlock is alive! Shit, calm down. Sherlock is alive, he's home. Calm down! Am I having another panic attack?! I haven't had one in over a year!_

"John! There you are, I thought I heard someone coming down the hall….? John?" It was Molly, standing in the doorway, holding open one of the lab doors. "John what's wrong?"

She sounded worried, as well she might. John dropped his bag, and grabbed at the wall. His lungs couldn't pull in enough air, and he was seeing spots. Terror was making his throat feel like it was closing up, and he struggled not to start hyperventilating in response.

"Sherlock!" Molly called back over her shoulder, her voice echoing in the lab. "It's John!"

Molly ran to his side, and put her shoulder under his. John thought he heard something crash to the floor in the lab, and the next thing he knew Sherlock erupted through the doors and was at his side.

"What happened? John? Are you hurt?" Sherlock went to John's other side, and John wrapped his arm around Sherlock's neck and hung on for dear life.

"It's a panic attack, Sherlock. He used to have them all the time after…. After you left." That was Molly, her voice low and sad.

John was losing the battle with the panic, and he was shaking. He heard Sherlock swear, and his arms came around him, holding him up. Molly still had his other arm, and together they supported him into the lab, and into the small office. There was a couch in there, the standard office edition, but it felt like heaven under his weak legs. Sherlock sat with him on the couch, and Molly hovered at the door. John put his head between his knees and concentrated on slowing down his heart. Sherlock's warm hand was on the back of his neck, his touch helping.

"John, I'm here. I'm sorry John, so sorry….." Sherlock sounded lost, so lost. He didn't know what to do other than apologize, and John wasn't having it. He felt anger stir, pushing back against the panic. He had forgiven Sherlock, he truly had. Sherlock still had to forgive himself.

John reached out his hand, and grabbed Sherlock's thigh. The contact steadied him further, and John sucked in a breath, held it. Slowly let it out. Repeat. Sherlock moved closer, and put his head on the back of John's shoulder, his arm around the doctor's waist. John heard something so unexpected that the surprise of it startled him out of the vicious cycle he was caught in. _Sherlock was humming…_ John kept breathing, feeling Sherlock hum quietly against his shoulder, and focused on the sound. His voice was deep and smooth, and John recognized the song from the one Sherlock had played for him the other night.

"_Danny Boy_ again, Sherlock?" John's voice was raspy, and he coughed. Sherlock stopped humming, and John thought he felt Sherlock smile into his shoulder.

"Tell no one, my reputation wouldn't survive it." Sherlock's voice had a sad edge to it, but he was trying hard to sound his normal snarky self. Didn't work so well, as John knew his panic attack had done as much damage to Sherlock as it had to him.

"I haven't had one in a long time." John sighed, and leaned back. Sherlock's arm came to rest around his shoulders. John snuggled into his shoulder, and dropped his head under Sherlock's chin. His heart was still racing, but he relaxed in the warm heat of Sherlock, glad he was there. His presence was clearing out the residual panic.

Molly was still in the doorway, her hand over her mouth. She had suspiciously glittery eyes, and he heard her snuffle. She was looking at them with the most unusual expression, and John smiled at her. Molly smiled back, and wiped at her eyes. "You should probably eat something, maybe some tea. I'll make it."

"Um, thanks Molly. Sorry to be such a pain." John watched as she went to the little electric kettle in the corner, and turned it on. She pulled a tin of biscuits from the cupboard, and brought them over.

"Its fine, John. I've had them before. Takes time, and avoiding triggers. Something must have triggered you when you came here. It likely started the second you walked in the building." She sounded so nonchalant, like she was discussing the weather. She put the tin on the small coffee table, and went back to the kettle. She had just admitted to having debilitating panic attacks, and she wasn't at all upset to tell him.

"You? Can I ask….? Sorry, never mind. Mine is obvious, haven't been here since…" Sherlock squeezed his shoulder, and John leaned into him more.

Molly had finished making the tea, carrying over a steaming mug and handed it to him. Her face was thoughtful, and there wasn't a trace of unease.

"I haven't always wanted to be a pathologist, messing with crime scene evidence and cutting up dead people for the police." She smiled at them both. "Sherlock knows, I'm sure." She gave Sherlock a small look full of meaning, and she straightened up, shoulders back, smoothing her hands down the front of her lab coat. "Don't worry about the mess, Sherlock, I'll take care of it. You two stay here, relax."

John watched as she walked back out to the lab, her long pony tail swaying with each light step. Molly always moved like she was still a girl, all float-y steps and birdlike movements. She was more relaxed in the lab than anywhere else, her stutter almost nonexistent. John found himself warming to her even more, impressed by her compassionate heart.

"The resiliency of the meek Dr Hooper is impressive indeed." Sherlock must have pulled his mind reading trick again, his words so closely matched John's own thoughts.

"She helped you save the world, and didn't tell a soul. Pretty damn impressive." John sipped his tea, feeling better as the heat spread through his limbs.

They both sat watching Molly as she swept up the broken glass on the floor next to where Sherlock had been sitting. Neither felt the need to speak, and Sherlock's fingers played with the soft hair behind John's ear before trailing down his arm, and back up again.

"Did you learn anything yet? From the evidence?" John asked, enjoying the tingles Sherlock was causing with his fingers.

"Some things, yes. I sent my results to Mycroft's people. Should hear something from them about it this afternoon. I was about to start on the blood samples."

"Well, let's get working then. Sooner we get this disciple, the better off we'll all be." John set the empty mug down, and got to his feet. He reached out and pulled Sherlock up with him. Sherlock looked at him, clearly assessing whether or not he really was okay. John kissed him, pressure firm. Sherlock lowered his head, and kissed him back, and things heated up fast. John was thrilled when Sherlock's tongue found his, and one smooth stroke back from his tongue made Sherlock shiver all the way down to his toes.

There was a tiny _sigh_ from the lab, and John knew Molly had seen. Sherlock lifted his head, and gave him a very serious look that made John's stomach do an ecstatic flip. _Oh let's hurry up on this case, I want to see where that look takes us….I've got a week off and there's no place better to be than in bed with someone you love!_

There was chirp from a mobile in the lab, and Molly checked her messages.

"Sherlock, my dead bodies just arrived, I've got to go. I can come back later once the post-mortems are finished."

"Thank you Molly, you've been invaluable." Sherlock walked out with John and John added his own thanks. Molly just gave him that tiny smile of hers, and waved as she left the lab.

"So. Blood samples. Those I can help with." John said, taking off his jacket and putting it with Sherlock's.

"I was in the process of setting up my slides." Sherlock went back to his seat, and took up where he left off.

John had trained at Bart's back in his university days, and he knew his way around the labs. Prepping blood slides was as easy as walking, and just as mindless. John appreciated the ease of the work, the familiarity, and doing this with Sherlock was enjoyable. Even if they were hunting a madman.

Molly had only been gone for ten minutes when Sherlock's mobile began to ring. Absently Sherlock answered, putting it on speaker.

"Molly, you could have just come back up here….." Sherlock started in, but Molly interrupted him, her voice full of such terror and panic both men stood up in shock.

"Oh God, Sherlock get down here! To the morgue! Oh God…" there was a sob, and they could hear tears in her voice, "Bring John! Hurry!" They could hear her crying in the background as the call died out.

The morgue was on the bottom floor, and usually a five-minute walk from the path labs. Sherlock and John made it in three, having forgone the elevator in favor of the stairs. They ran down the cold hall to the morgue doors, and burst through them together. Molly was standing next to her desk, boxes from a crime scene open next to her. She was crying into her hands, eyes wide in shock. There were bodies still in their black bags arranged on the tables, all of them occupied.

"Molly! What is it?" Sherlock went straight to her side, and looked down as she pointed with a shaking finger to one of the evidence bags. There was a slim woman's wallet in it, along with a mobile with a shattered screen. The wallet had an outside ID screen, and the ID card had a name and picture on it that made Sherlock's blood run cold.

**Mary Morstan**

John came up beside him, and looked down. He read the name on the ID, and froze. Molly continued to cry, as she turned to face the bodies still hidden in their bags on the tables. There was no sound in the morgue other than the hum of the refrigeration units and Molly's tears. The atmosphere went colder, and sunk into their bones.

Sherlock moved first, like he was sleepwalking, one hand lifted. John followed behind him, air cutting jagged rips in his lungs, as Sherlock grabbed the first bag's zipper. His hand stilled, fingers shaking. Molly started to cry harder, tears running from her eyes down her cheeks. John felt like he was going to be sick, and Mary's name was a running litany in his mind, screaming. He could only watch in sick horror as Sherlock began to drag the zipper open.

Molly gagged, her voice choked by relief and a stranglehold of terror. The bag opened to show the destroyed features of an adult male, skull blown away by a gunshot wound. Sherlock let go of the zipper, and dread sank into his soul as he turned to the body on the next table. John followed, a few steps behind, his skin ice-cold and his heart felt frozen, like it was pumping ice water instead of blood.

Sherlock tugged on the zipper, and John swallowed back the urge to vomit, certain he was going to see the desecrated face of the woman who still held a large part of his heart. Broken and bloody and unrecognizable… the zipper was open enough, and Sherlock pulled the edges back. Molly screamed, no control left, and she ran to Sherlock's side, looking down in a crazy mix of disbelief and glee. It wasn't Mary; it was another man, his face caved in by a powerful blunt force trauma, the blood the only recognizable thing about his face.

They all turned to the next bag, this one holding a body slightly smaller than the previous two. Molly had a death grip on Sherlock's arm, and he dragged her along with him as he went to the head of the bag. John stood where he was, incapable of moving. Fingers gripped the exam slab so tightly he couldn't feel them. John couldn't feel anything. Adrenaline was making him ill, and he could look nowhere else but at Sherlock's fingers, where they gripped the zipper. Sherlock was shaking so badly that he lost the tab, and had to clutch at it again. Molly buried her face in his shoulder, peeking out of one eye like she couldn't stand to look, or look away.

_OHGONOOHGODPLEASE NO! _John was screaming, screaming so loudly in his own mind he was certain everyone could hear him. Sherlock took forever to pull that zipper down, and John lost it. He ran to the table, pulled the zipper from Sherlock's hand, and ripped the bag open.

Blood. The stink of brain matter exposed to the air. John gagged, backing away from that last table, and the torment of the last couple of minutes.

_Thank you God, Thank you God…._

It wasn't Mary either. It was another gunshot victim, a man. Not as large as the other two had been, but big enough to notice that it couldn't have been Mary. She was short, a tiny woman compared to most. If they had been able to think past the dread and terror, perhaps they might have seen the truth earlier. Molly was crying all out now, Sherlock holding her to his chest. John felt his knees give out, and he fell to the floor next to the last slab. He felt like he was going to be ill. Sherlock walked over to him, and peeled the still sobbing Molly off of his shoulder and gave her to John. John's arms opened automatically, holding the crying pathologist to him as they sat together on the floor. He drew strength from the fact that Mary wasn't dead. She wasn't in the body bags. She wasn't dead. John tried his best to comfort Molly, and he looked up at Sherlock.

Sherlock's face was a stone mask, eyes assessing the bodies. An expression settled over his features, and John knew that Sherlock had made a connection that he hadn't seen.

John could think of nothing, his own mind lost in relief and shock. Molly was still crying, and he stroked her hair in soothing motions. Sherlock stood over them, and he captured John's gaze as he pulled out his mobile. He dialed a number, and waited, phone to his ear.

"Lestrade. Listen very carefully." He paused, and John felt the world shift at his next words.

"Mary Morstan has been taken."


	20. Chapter 20 Lady M

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, but he owns me. Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present the villain of my story! Thank you all for your patience, and please enjoy! Oh so very wicked indeed! **

**Read, review, enjoy!**

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><p><strong>Chapter Twenty<strong>

"_**Lady M"**_

Prison Wandsworth stood gloomily in the weak midday sun, as the black town car growled to a stop outside the visitor's entrance. It was a moral void in the local landscape, creeping and cancerous in its appearance. The history of these walls was like a scar on the soul, impossible to forget.

Her valet opened the door, and she exited beneath the gray walls, feeling the prison's long history of despair and malice seep into her pores. She closed her eyes, and drew in a deep breath, almost tasting the delicious bouquet on her tongue. Her very foolish husband suffered behind these walls, and a small smile flitted across her delicate features.

Her long black coat did little to disguise her figure, strong and lean and graced with curves in all the right places. Her black dress was elegance and simplicity, and she wore just enough gold to make a statement. Her heels were high enough to question the wisdom in wearing them at all, but she moved as if she were walking on air. She had an image to project; one she knew just how to cultivate. She moved with the loose limbed ease of a runway model, and her smile, when she chose to use it, had many of a man's heart lost forever. Long mahogany tresses got caught up in the wind and her men appreciated the sight. Or they would have if she didn't terrify them. They knew her for what she really was, the elite few who knew the truth. Her valet got back in the car and drove away, to return when she was done.

She went to the entrance, and her bodyguard hurriedly opened it for her. She stepped into the reception area for visitors, gracefully stepping over the threshold. There were a dozen people present, all waiting in grubby little plastic chairs or standing against the dirty walls. Her eyes danced over them in quick dismissal, ignoring the lot of them. There she waited, just inside the doorway, as her bodyguard filed in behind her.

The room quieted, and people turned to stare. She knew she was a sight; her black clothes, her hair, the jewelry, the imposing man at her back, it all screamed opulence. She hadn't gone for subtlety in a long time, and she let her disdain for the common crowd around her show. She walked forward, and cut through the people standing, waiting to get processed in to visit their loved ones. She went straight to a window that held nothing but a camera winking through the glass. She stared into the lens, knowing her image was being processed and her identity being confirmed. Her guard stood at her back still, arms folded, eyeing the people whispering behind her, all wondering what was going on.

A door opened to the right, and a man in a dark suit stood on the threshold. He nodded at her, and she stepped before him into the priority access room usually reserved for government officials. It was a staging area for what came next. She dropped her purse on the table, and walked to another door, waiting for her guard to be stripped of his weapons.

"Stay here. I shall be fine." She ordered, and the door opened. Her bodyguard was hesitant, unwilling to let her go ahead alone. It opened in a long, slim hallway that was lit only by blue LED strips at floor level along the wall. At the end was a room awash in white light. She had been through the process already, and knew to walk straight ahead, with a slow easy pace. She put a little sway into her hips, and smiled, the red gloss on her lips shiny in the half-light. She was being watched, cameras lined the walls. She walked down the hall, hearing the machinery behind the walls humming as they X-rayed her whole frame, searching for concealed weapons and other contraband. She was clean; she had nothing to worry about.

At the end of the hall she stepped out into the white room, and went to the desk in the center. It was large, made of oak, and screamed high-class Old World money. A single man sat there, a small laptop to his side. He had the standard look of all government lackeys; no personality, and horrid taste in suits.

"Name?" He asked, not looking at her. He wasn't being deliberately obtuse. He knew her name, the audio systems needed to hear her say it for confirmation of her identity.

"Lady Sybil Moran, wife of Lord Sebastian Moran, former Minister of Overseas Development."

The little laptop on the desk beeped, and a door appeared out of nowhere, that had until then been invisible in the white walls. It opened into the room behind it, and she stalked around the desk without hesitation. There were other doors that would have opened if she hadn't passed. Doors that held men armed to the teeth, perfectly willing to 'disappear' someone trying to breach security. _But they don't know that I know that…this is so much fun!_

The man she had come to see sat at the lone table in the interrogation room. Sebastian Moran looked terrible. He was wearing a gray jumpsuit that did nothing for his complexion, and he had dark circles under his eyes. His wrists were chained together to the metal table top. He had the toxic air of a man who had given up, depression emanating from him like a cloud. Sebastian appeared to have aged at least a decade since his capture and arrest the week before. _The fool cannot even handle a week behind bars! So very weak…._

There was a single chair across from him at the large table. She pulled it out, sat with her legs crossed, and folded her hands neatly in her lap. The large door behind her slid back into place, and she heard the deep _clink _as the locks engaged. There were cameras in each corner, and she felt the lenses track her as she moved, zooming in on her face. They were using FLIR, and were most likely using it to monitor her comments, her reactions, and his. They had done this her previous visit, when they had walked her through the protocols on how to visit her husband. She pretended not to know the full depth of what they were really using, the technology they had used to scan her as she entered. She let the fools continue to be blind. They thought her mindless, just another pretty face. A silly young woman who thought this whole thing was just a misunderstanding.

Nothing was private in this room; the minions of Mycroft Holmes were watching. She wasn't worried, though. She had been evading the Holmes brothers for years. She would dance around them again.

"_Darling!_ You look terrible! Have the dreadful prison guards been mean to you?" She smirked at him, sarcasm so thick in her voice he flinched. She could play the simple-minded lady of society for all it was worth.

Moran looked at his wife, and felt a ribbon of terror snake through his soul. Usually she appeared to be as she had been trained; a lovely young woman of good breeding, married to a minor nobleman who was far too old for her, who held a semi-important position in the government. Her control perfect, no one ever saw past her mask. No one ever saw the madness. A shadow of it was there now in her eyes, a wild thing that moved like a predator hunting in the night. Her eyes never left his, her smile never slipped, yet Moran felt as if she were raking thin daggers across his heart.

"Sybil, you look… well." Moran tried to sound casual, and failing. His heart started to beat faster, fear making a tiny trickle of sweat roll down his temple. "They said you were coming today, but I wasn't sure you'd be back."

"How could I not visit my darling husband? While he's in prison, charged with treason and terrorism? How can I not visit you, bring you comfort?" Her voice was light and gentle, sounded so very supportive. Except for her eyes. There the real Sybil Moran waited, and she was furious. "Those nasty government people tore through our house, my clothes, and even interrogated me! I was so upset, and you weren't there to make them go away! Oh Sebbie, you'll be home soon, won't you?"

Moran swallowed, and he knew he alone heard the wrath beneath the silly housewife routine.

"Sorry dear. This should all be over soon, I promise." He had no idea what to say, for anything he could think of would reveal more than he was willing.

"Oh yes dear, it will be." Sybil stood, and slowly began to pace around the table, her high heels clicking lightly on the floor, fingers trailing on the tabletop. She knew the cameras were following her every move. They wouldn't intervene, the scans had shown her clean.

"I was talking to my friends, and they said I should file for divorce. I had nothing to do with that silly train business, those nasty bombs. I wanted nothing to do with such a topic! Divorce after only two years of marriage. But I said you were innocent, and that I took my vows seriously. Marriage is forever…. 'Til death do us part." Sybil had reached his side, and Moran fought the impulse to flinch away from her hand as she traced a shiny red nail down the side of his face. She gave a sweet giggle, and her impersonation of a society wife was flawless. "I'll be waiting for you to come home, Sebbie."

There was flash of gold on her finger. His eyes tracked it, and he drew in a breath as he saw the signet. The black M nestled in the Welsh gold stabbed him through the heart. He felt a thread of anger, and looked up at his darling wife. She knew he had seen the ring, and she smiled at him sweetly, daring him to say anything.

"You're wearing it, Sybil." Was all he could say, all his courage could muster.

"Of course I am! Silly Sebbie, why wouldn't I wear the ring of the man I loved more than anything in this world?" Sybil leaned down, her gorgeous hair falling in a sheet over one shoulder, and she kissed him gently on the lips. Moran held still, and refused to let his hands shake. She smiled against his lips, feeling his terror.

"I must go dear. Just had to stop by, show my support. I'm certain you'll be free in no time! I've got plans this afternoon, a girls' night out! Big plans, lots of fun." She pulled back, smiled one last time, and turned to leave.

Moran felt his stomach drop, bile encroaching up his throat. Whatever she had planned had already started. Her heels clicked away at the floor, like tiny hammers chipping at his sanity. The door sealed shut behind her as she left, and Moran knew he was a dead man if she ever got him truly alone. She was a sight to behold, the monster the world knew as Sybil Moran.

Sebastian Moran had spent the better part of the last decade serving two masters. The North Koreans, and James Moriarty. He had been his chief disciple for years, trusting his double allegiance to keep him secure in his position. When Moriarty had died, Moran had dim aspirations of taking over, but that had all been laid to rest by Sherlock Holmes. Holmes had torn the syndicate apart, and Moran had only escaped because he hid behind his North Korean contacts. He had turned to his remaining masters, and followed their lead.

Having an agent like Sybil as his wife was supposed to be a boon; but she had spurned his advances, and scoffed at his plans. His instructions to destroy Parliament had only drawn her scorn. She had only cooperated enough in her role as wife to keep up the happy newly wed façade. And to protect them from discovery at the hands of Sherlock Holmes. She had raced ahead of Holmes on the Continent, her skills put to use silencing leads and securing evidence that would send Holmes to knocking at their door. To the world it would have looked like a young noblewoman spending her husband's money across Europe. No one had noticed the body count, or the blood on her hands. Least of all Sherlock Holmes.

What control he had over her was gone the second he was arrested. She had an agenda, one that she had wanted to follow the second Moriarty shot himself in the head on that damn roof. It was only through his manipulation of Moriarty's last orders that had given Moran any edge in keeping her in line. Moriarty had ordered her to hide, to play the role of Sybil Moran, and she had obeyed. Her steadfast allegiance to a man who killed himself when confronted by Sherlock Holmes left him bitter with jealousy. Now that he was in no position to stop her, she felt freed from her promise.

He had only the barest idea of what she had planned, and her aspirations were enough to frighten him even here.

Sybil had married him only at the behest of her beloved master, to hide her deeper into the fabric of society. Her madness had flourished in secret, the world never learning who she really was. Once upon a time it was she who had held John Watson at her mercy, the tiny red laser dot from her sniper rifle zeroed in on the explosives vest, that night so long ago at the pool. She had led the sniper team that night, her every action attuned to her master's will as she directed the nightmare laser show.

The ring she wore for the man she loved, and it was not Sebastian Moran. She wore the ring of the man she lost to Sherlock Holmes. She had once been known as Death, beloved disciple of James Moriarty. Sebastian Moran had lost his position as chief disciple to a slim wisp of a woman who looked for all the world like a fashion model. She was as deranged as Moriarty, and she had no concern for her own life. All she wanted was vengeance.

The world would burn, and Sybil would avenge her true love. James Moriarty.

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><p>Sybil stepped out from under the imposing walls of the prison, wholly unaffected by the malaise that usually stole over people where she stood. She had accomplished one mission today already; and her second would only need time for it to complete on its own.<p>

Her car purred to a stop just as she walked out to the curb, and her guard opened the door. She got in, and as the car with its blackout windows drove away from Wandsworth, she knew she would never have to play the role of Lady Sybil Moran again. She would once again be Death, last and greatest disciple of James Moriarty.

Removing the compact and tweezers from her purse, she, with infinite care, peeled away the red latex seal from her lips. To anyone else the seal had appeared as fresh lip gloss. To her husband, it was the means by which she freed herself from his pathetic existence. She let no trace of the poison touch her mouth or skin, and disposed of the dangerous little pieces of latex in a black baggie. He would be dead within the next forty eight hours. Considering his current condition, most likely sooner.

"Gentlemen, we're going dark." She paused, and gave a beautiful breathy laugh. "Tell the others we are ready."


	21. Chapter 21 Three Words, One Promise

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

** WARNING: Sex. Have fun! **

**Read on. Enjoy!**

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><p><strong>Chapter Twenty One<strong>

"_**Those Three Words, and One Promise"**_

_**Previously….**_

_She sensed it, the presence just out of arm's reach to her side. There was no warning, no hint that she wasn't alone. That she had failed. Mary closed her eyes, and smiled. The click of a hammer being cocked cracked loud in the overwhelming silence, and a soundless roar built up in her ears. __**Three put down, better than most could do. End me then. Let it be by a worthy opponent.**__Mary's killer leveled the barrel of the gun at her temple, and spoke._

_"Hello, Mary. Let's talk." _

_ Mary's eyes flew open, for she heard the voice of Death._

It was a voice she had never expected to hear again. Mary turned her head, her eyes widening in disbelief. The woman who held her gun pointed at Mary's temple was known only as Death. Mary's heart stopped, squeezed tightly under her ribs. _Dear God, what trouble has found me now….._

Death was a specter in her black tactical gear, almost invisible in the darkness under the trees. From head to toe Death was dangerous. The weapon she carried was silenced, black and lethal in her delicate hands. Her long tresses were bound in a tight braid, trailing down her back. Her fine features twisted into a facsimile of joy, as if she were playing hide and seek in the dark with her best friends. Hide and seek with bullets and dead bodies.

"Well done, Mary. I was certain I wasn't going to make it in time. It's been a bit busy on my end lately. Glad to see you haven't lost anything in retirement." Death smiled at her, tossing out the compliment casually, as if she weren't aiming a pistol in the other woman's face. Mary carefully contemplated her options, and chose caution over more violence. Death had yet to pull the trigger.

Mary had met her once, on a mission eight years back. That mission haunted her even now. During that mission she had met a beautiful creature who was wholly evil. She harbored an evil that was self-aware, and made no excuses. Death had relished in the job, made it into high art, her genius for weaving a tapestry of blood unrivalled. Mary merely provided support, and watched Death work her dark magic. She was so young, and so very talented. Far too talented. Mary had always suspected that the day would come when someone saw the evil clearly, and would take the time to see it flourish. Some people were born _wrong, _born disconnected from their souls. The woman called Death was one such person.

The gun was still pointing at Mary's face, and she looked past the barrel, into the eyes of madness. Mary still held her gun, but she took her finger from the trigger, and slowly lowered it to point at the ground. Death watched her carefully, and she didn't relax her stance. Mary knew she was confronted by a wild animal, and one aggressive action would result in her messy death.

"Should I call you Mary? I shouldn't call you by that other name, should I?" Death spoke, the gun unwavering. Her voice was calm, as if discussing the latest fall fashions over tea.

"Mary is what I go by now. Is it still Death, or have you chosen a new name as well?" Mary matched her tone for tone, smiling a little as the younger woman grinned wider. Such a pretty smile, it hid the evil so well.

"You haven't been paying attention, Mary. Look closer."

The face before her morphed and dropped the visage of insanity to blend into another face. The face of the young society wife of the traitor, Sebastian Moran. The man Sherlock and John had stopped from destroying Parliament last week. Just the reminder of John and Sherlock made Mary's broken heart crack further, anger filling the voids.

"Sybil Moran." Mary breathed the name, and she fought back her astonishment. _She has been here in London the whole time, out in the open, and no one saw her! I never saw her! _"Very impressive."

"So sorry about your marital issues, dear. Are we going to exchange pleasantries all evening, or do you think I can stand up?" Mary took a chance. If Death wanted her dead, she wouldn't have revealed herself, and Mary would be another cooling corpse in a small forgotten park. There were too many questions unanswered, but now was not the time for them. One strike team had failed; another could be well on its way.

"Oh please do Mary. I haven't come for your life, not tonight." Death stepped back, and deliberately lowered the gun, finger still on the trigger, pointed at the ground.

Mary stood, her knees wet from the damp gravel, cold dripping down into her boots. Mary looked back to the bridge, her eyes scanning beyond for any movement among the trees.

"There was a car, there may be more." Mary grimaced, and turned to Death. "Were they yours?" She looked Death in the eyes, wondering if she would be able to tell if this creature was lying or not.

"No. They were sent to capture, and failing that, to kill." Simple, straight forward. Death maintained the sweet mask of Sybil Moran, only her eyes revealing the true nature underneath. Mary nodded. She would believe her, for now.

"By…. Who?" Mary almost didn't ask, the list was long indeed who wanted her dead.

"I don't know for certain, but I know it was Magnussen who let slip your current hiding place. Apparently he traded you for information to get to someone else." Death stopped speaking, her attention caught by a distant sound from the street. Car doors slammed, and lights were flickering through the trees. "You can stay here and die, or you can come with me."

"I'll live, thank you." Mary replied, her gun lifting from the ground, as she turned to place herself beside Death, facing the approaching threat.

"Mary, you know better." Death sighed, and she cast a glance at the gun in Mary's hand. "Go clean, all of it please. Or you can stay here."

"What a shame." Mary groaned, and began to strip down the gun. She was oddly fond of it, but this was necessary. Her prints were all over it, and she had just used it to kill two men. If she used it again in the future, the ballistics would create a trail back to this shooting, and her actions tonight. Keeping an eye on the approaching lights, Mary broke down her gun, and tossed the pieces in to the stream, deep _plunks_ of noise muffled by the trees. She pulled out her wallet, and mobile. The mobile was GPS enabled, too easily tracked. She tossed them both back towards the bodies, knowing the police would find them, and think her either missing, kidnapped or dead with no female body present. Her cover as Mary Morstan was blown. The attempt on her life tonight proof positive there was no going back.

As long as there were no prints left on the gun, the police would have no clue she fired the shots that killed those men. If they even found it. Most likely Sherlock would, though. Mary was no fool; John and Sherlock would learn all too soon what had happened here. She knew Sherlock would see past the violence, and know she left willingly. The time between the police getting to the scene and Sherlock and John finding out about it would allow her to disappear.

She had no intention of turning to Sherlock and John for help. John had betrayed her love, leaving her abruptly, no warning. She knew the bond between the two men was powerful, but she hadn't expected it to exclude her. Sherlock had broken John with grief and despair, and she had been left to pick up the pieces. For all the good it had done for her heart.

The truth of her identity was no longer a secret. Mary was now a hunted animal, and she would no longer be playing nice. The lights in the trees were closing in, the passage of men moving quickly through the underbrush a bare whisper of sound in the silence.

"Sad really, that we can't stay, have some more fun. My boys are waiting for us on the other side of the park." With that, Death turned and jogged off into the trees, silent and sleek. Mary knew there was no going back from this point, the hunt had begun for real now. Mary turned and followed, the dark swallowing her as well. She felt a tendril of manic delight unfurl from her broken heart, a seedling growing into retribution.

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><p><em><strong>Now…..<strong>_

"John?" Lestrade's voice was far away, even though the Inspector was standing right next to him. John was at the crime scene in the small park, staring down at the large pool of blood that still glistened in the sun, sinking into the stone work of the small bridge. Here two men had died. A third had died about a hundred feet away, beneath the branches of an overgrown pine.

Sherlock and John had only been on scene for twenty minutes or so, but John had lost all track of time. John had managed to keep it together right up until this point. Her mobile and ID had been found here, sticky with blood. _Mary was here, why was she here? Where is she?_

Sherlock had led the way, following the very clear trail of multiple people running through the woods of the small park. The first scene had captured Sherlock's attention instantly, and the look that fell over his face had nearly driven John mad. It was if Sherlock was angry, yet gleefully satisfied all at once. Like he had just confirmed a long-held theory. The bed of pine needles had left clear marks, as feet running at high speeds had torn up the soft damp earth.

Sherlock hadn't spoken, merely looked at John before walking in deeper. John was so deeply conflicted he could do nothing but follow behind Sherlock, Lestrade at his side. _Would she still be safe if I hadn't left? Did they take her because of me? Because of Sherlock? Is this to get at us? The disciple?_

John stared at Sherlock's back, wondering what he was feeling. A part of him was screaming at him to reach out to this man, to hold him close and seek comfort. Sherlock would make this better, he would solve this conflict in his heart. John loved Sherlock so much, so very much, and that he did was making him feel wretched. John was crippled by another part of him; the part that said that Mary being in danger must be his fault. Must be John's fault because he had been selfish, and left her for Sherlock. He hadn't loved her enough. If he had, she might still be okay. And that someone wanted them to suffer, so they took Mary.

"John, we sent units to your house, they're searching it now. She wasn't there." Lestrade said, voice low. John barely had the ability to nod, let alone speak. Sherlock had followed the stream down a little hill, and into the woods. He was a moving shadow under the trees, and John felt like Sherlock was slipping away too. Mary was gone, Mary was gone and it was his fault. He didn't deserve her, he didn't deserve Sherlock.

"Lestrade." Sherlock's voice drifted out from the trees, lifting John temporarily from his cycle of guilt. John followed Lestrade down the hill, and they walked under the cool shadows of the trees. Sherlock was standing next to the stream, his gaze absorbed by the rippling waters. As John approached, Sherlock looked up at him, his face impassive.

"I know what happened." Sherlock paused, and his voice was cold, heartless. John shivered, and his heart felt like it was breaking. Sherlock hadn't sounded this reserved in years, not since the beginning. Whatever it was, it was bad, so bad Sherlock wouldn't let emotion prevent him from saying it. _She's dead, and they hid her body or took it, Mary please no….._

"John, you must hear me, and know I speak the truth. I am not wrong."

John was struck speechless, and could only nod once. Sherlock held his gaze prisoner for a moment longer, eyes like ice, resolved. His voice was like steel, and John knew that Sherlock never lied about his deductions, not ever. John nodded, and waited.

"She was chased by the three men, the ones who died. She ran across the street, into the woods. One was closer than the others, and she ran for the pine tree. Not to climb to safety, but as a means to kill. She ran up the trunk, jumped over him, and kicked him so hard that he killed himself, cracking his head open on the tree. She then proceeded to run deeper in to the park, heading here for this clearing, and the bridge. She was losing ground, they were gaining on her, until she leapt from the bridge, and made the tree line here." Sherlock paused, and gestured to the ground. There were long skid marks dug into the gravel of the stream bed, and a deeper depression at the end.

"She evaded the shots they were firing at her here, by going below their line of fire. Here was were Mary drew her own weapon, and killed them both." Lestrade moved, as if to argue, and Sherlock stilled him with a single look. "She fired two shots only, two shots to their even dozen."

Sherlock pointed down to the gravel, and nestled in among the rocks was two spent shells, nine millimeters from the size.

"She knelt here, until another woman joined her, from the other side of the park. The tread, the pacing all suggest a woman, late twenties, early thirties. Size 8 shoes." Sherlock was pointing to the dirt, and there was another set of footprints, stance shoulder width apart and facing Mary's position.

"They made no aggressive moves towards each other, and from Mary's positions as she stood, she knew her companion, knew her well enough to face a new threat that was coming from the street. Look there, in the ferns, into the stream from the opposite bank. You can see several lines in the damp earth, several men closing in on them. The women left, but not before Mary dumped her ID, her mobile, and her gun."

"Hey hold on mate, Mary shot those thugs, and dumped her gun? What gun?" That was Lestrade, clearly unwilling to believe that the woman he had met could have done all that.

John was still staring at Sherlock, and he felt something shift in his chest. Something was changing inside his heart, and it was breaking off a piece of himself he thought he would have to carry forever.

"Yes, her gun." Sherlock threw off his coat, and tossed it away from the stream, higher up on the bank. He then did something John or Lestrade would have sworn he'd never do, ever, in a million years. He kicked off his shoes, pulled off his socks, rolled up the hem of his slacks and….. Waded into the stream. The cold water swirled up Sherlock's pale legs, as he carefully navigated the stream, to where he halted in the middle, the deepest part. He stared down for second, and slowly bent over, pulling up his sleeve to his elbow. His arm sank almost all the way to his sleeve, and his fingers gripped something below the surface. He lifted up, and tossed a wet dripping black object from the water to his coat. It fell silently, droplets thrown everywhere. Three more times he went back into the water, before tossing up the last piece.

"Mary Morstan went 'clean'. She got rid of her ID, her mobile, and the weapon used to kill those men. Her actions speak of training, at the highest level. Look and see."

Lestrade went to see, and he swore, instantly recognizing what he saw. John couldn't move, his feet refusing to let him go see, his mind incapable of believing. He had recognized the first piece almost as soon as Sherlock had pulled it from the icy water.

"John." Sherlock's voice was an order, jarring him free. John moved forward, eyes on Sherlock's long coat. It was a disassembled nine mill, with a silencer. The truth was cracking John apart, and he felt like the entirety of his life was built on lies. Nothing but lies. Everyone he loved had lied to him.

"No John, not your entire life." John hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud at all, until Sherlock answered him. "You are not a lie."

"But the people who are in it are." John whispered back. He couldn't look at either man, and John turned from the stream, and the evidence that Mary Morstan wasn't who she had claimed to be. Mary was an efficient killer, easily dispatching three armed thugs without hesitation. Sherlock had lied to him, played hide and seek on the Continent for two years while John's heart was broken, mourning the man he loved past all reason.

"What does that say about me, that people find it okay to lie to me? That everyone I have ever loved has lied to me? Am I not worth the truth?"

John couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't cope, too much change too fast. Four weeks ago his best friend was dead, and he was moving on, in love with a funny, smart, kind woman. Two weeks ago his best friend came back from the dead, and resurrected John's heart along with him, changing his whole life in the process. He had asked Mary to marry him because he loved her, but he didn't love her enough to resist Sherlock. He had tried to keep going in the direction he thought he should. Sherlock's pull on his heart yanked him off course, and put him in this new place. He had Sherlock, he had him fully, and John let Mary go. His guilt, at being unable to love her enough to stay, had been eating away at him. His guilt made him angry; how to feel guilty when she was a lair, such a liar?

"Sherlock…" John needed Sherlock. But he couldn't ask. Mary would have married him, lying to him the entire time about what she really was, about what she could do.

John was shattering now, confusion breaking apart his foundations. He was shaking, and his mind was at its breaking point. First the panic attack, then the scare in the morgue, then the crime scene, and now this revelation. Too much, too close together.

Anger was boiling up from his core, anger so fast it made his fists clench so tight his nails dug into his palms, blood creeping from the welts. He was beyond sanity now, and John lost any shred of control he'd been holding onto the last two years.

John screamed, _screamed out his rage. He wasn't John anymore, he was a wounded animal, screaming out in defiance at the world, daring it to tear him down further. To break him faster._

"_Damn you! Damn you all!" _John was lost, so lost in the pain and betrayal he didn't care, he cared for nothing. He just kept screaming it, over and over and over. His fists were pounding on something hard, something that bit back, the pain enraging him further. He hit and hit for eternity, until his arms refused to move.

John did not weep, he did not cry. He beat at the earth, and struck out at the confining hands that reached for him.

_I am not this man… I am not this man….. I have died before, twice now, this is nothing….. She lied to me, I loved her. She lied to me… but I lied to her. I tried being who I thought I was, a man in love with a good woman…..I deserve all of this…. I let Sherlock face Moriarty alone, I didn't fight hard enough… he left me, he died…God, pull me back, pull me back from this…. Help me, please God…Don't let this happen to me again, help me….Sherlock!_

John was dimly aware that he was making no sense, even to himself. He felt separated from his body, as if he were watching a show on the television. He saw himself collapsed to his knees on the wet gravel, hands bloody from pounding at the stones. His face pressed into a warm, comforting surface, and he heard a drumming in his ear, a sound her knew, that he loved. He was in Sherlock's arms, the detective wrapped so tightly around him John knew that gravity had lost the fight, and that Sherlock held him to the earth instead.

Sherlock was saying something, over and over. John couldn't understand it, his brain unable to weave the words together. He tried to calm himself, to hear Sherlock better. It was very important right then for him to hear Sherlock, so very important.

"I love you John. I promise to never lie to you again. I love you John, I love you…." Over and over again Sherlock whispered it to him, voice urgent. "I love you John Watson, come back to me…"

_Did he just say that? Sherlock?_ He moved his head, tilted it back, to look Sherlock in the eyes. He knew John saw him, heard him, but he continued to say it, over and over.

"I love you John." Sherlock whispered to him, voice full of guilt and sadness, and for some reason, joy. Sherlock smiled at him, and said it again. "I love you John Watson."

"Say that again." John whispered back, and he felt his own inner strength stirring in his soul. Felt his abused heart respond, the words like rain on the desert he was dying in.

"I love you John." Sherlock was no longer whispering it, speaking at a normal tone. He didn't care that Lestrade was mere feet away, that he heard everything. Sherlock would shout it to the universe, if it made John come back from the edge.

Sherlock bent down, and kissed him. Sweet and chaste, but full of emotion. John sighed, his eyes drifted shut, and he kissed his lover back, letting the kiss fill his heart. Sherlock broke away, and his voice serious, he made John a promise.

"I promise to never deceive you, to lie to you. I will never hide something from you, even if I think you knowing will place you in danger." Sherlock paused, and continued. "I promise you this because I love you, and you deserve everything from me, all that I can give you. I can do no less. All facets of my heart and mind belong to you, John Watson."

* * *

><p>Lestrade watched them, so absorbed in each other, that they cared not where they were, or who watched them. Greg felt his own heart stir, and he struggled not to cry. The love between them was so powerful; it swayed his damaged heart. Greg Lestrade was an old romantic, and he hated for people to know it. Yet here beneath the trees, Lestrade watched a miracle, and did not care who saw him tear up.<p>

A long time ago, he had once told John Watson that Sherlock Holmes was a great man. And that if they were very lucky, one day he would even be a good one. Lestrade was so lucky today. He saw Sherlock Holmes admit to love, and love enough to make a promise.

* * *

><p>John sat on the bench, in the sun, in that little park where everything had changed again. John felt freer, he felt lighter. His guilt over how he treated Mary was swiftly disappearing. She had kept such large secrets from him, and the way she had been acting right up until the point he broke it off made it clear she had no intention of ever telling him.<p>

"It was in self-defense, this whole mess?" John asked, looking down at his hands. His knuckles stung, but he'd done worse to them.

"Yes, it was." Sherlock was sitting next to him, pulling on his socks.

"Lestrade going to start looking for her then? Bring her in for questioning?"

"Officially she is a person of interest, but not a murder suspect. I think Lestrade is letting this sit on the back burner. Apparently those men were professional bad guys, so no one is seeing this as too urgent." Sherlock was trying his laces up, and John found himself staring at those long pale fingers. "They'll be seeing who hired them for the hit, obviously, but they'll be leaving Mary alone for now."

"Good." John sat back on the bench, and put his face back to the sky. It was in early in the afternoon yet, and the sun came come out from behind the clouds long enough to warm his bones before ducking away again.

"I will find her only if you want me too." Sherlock said, and he sat back as well, his hand coming to John's shoulder, arm along the backrest.

"She left willingly, and she wasn't hurt. If she wanted our help, or the police's help, she would have come to us. Let her go." John reached up, and took Sherlock's hand in his.

"Do we need to be somewhere right now? Back at the lab or at Mycroft's place?" John was not looking forward to seeing the elder Holmes right now, he'd probably punch him the second he showed his snarky face. Some of his thoughts must have been obvious, because Sherlock laughed quietly.

"Technically yes, but give me a moment….." Sherlock pulled out his mobile, and scooted over next to John. John let him snuggle up along his side, Sherlock's arm around his shoulder. Sherlock tilted his mobile so John could see what he was typing.

**Canceling this afternoon –SH**

**Whatever for? –MH**

**Had something more urgent come up –SH**

Nothing for close to a minute, then:

**What on Earth is more important? –MH**

**John –SH**

Sherlock promptly shut down his mobile, and tucked it away again.

"Well, I give it less than a minute before he starts in on your mobile sooo…." Sherlock, in a very sneaky move, plucked John's mobile from his jacket pocket and turned that off too. Handing it back, Sherlock smirked at him, eyes all shiny and happy in the sun.

John laughed at his antics, and they both stood up. Sherlock wrapped his long fingers around John's, and they headed out of the park, back towards the street.

"Hey, Sherlock! Your brother wants you to call him!" That was Lestrade, his mobile to his ear, a harassed look on his face, standing with some of his officers. Sherlock just waved at him, and neither of them stopped.

* * *

><p>Mrs. Hudson had wanted to stick around and chat, talking nonstop about the news. She kept wandering back into the flat, before Sherlock managed to close all the doors. Sherlock then was dragging John to the bedroom, shoving the door shut, and throwing the lock.<p>

The entire can ride back from the park had felt different, the air alive with electricity. Sherlock knew he had crossed a milestone in their relationship today, and John felt it too. Sherlock held John's hand the ride home, thumb rubbing at the back of his doctor's hand.

Sherlock had no idea what he was doing, but John had a clue, as he was stripped down to his trousers in under minute. Sherlock wanted to touch him, and his hands lifted up without thought. His fingers slid over John's smooth skin, running down his chest, across his firm stomach. Sherlock was fascinated by the way John's skin felt, the charge it built in him. Sherlock didn't flinch when John reached for his waistband, and tugged his shirt free. Sherlock lowered his head, and John met him halfway in an open-mouthed kiss. He let his hands rest on John's hips, with his doctor's tongue sliding over his own. Sherlock groaned, and he took over the kiss, delving deeper, and the taste of John was intoxicating.

Sherlock felt a tugging at his shoulders, and let John remove his shirt without once lifting his mouth. Sherlock was so absorbed in John he didn't realize that John was walking them back towards the bed. His doctor had his hands on Sherlock's waistband, and popped the tab free, and the zipper down. Sherlock felt his slacks fall to the floor, but John's tongue was in his mouth again, and he didn't care.

Suddenly John tugged on his arms, and so swiftly Sherlock had no warning, John threw Sherlock on the bed. John came up over him, arms braced on either side of Sherlock's head. He stilled, wondering what John had in mind. John gave him no time to think, mouth on his, as John settled himself squarely on top of Sherlock. Thigh to thigh, groin to groin, chest to chest. John kissed Sherlock, deeper. Sherlock felt John against him, restrained by his trousers, and then Sherlock noticed he had nothing on but his underwear…

"John." Sherlock breathed out, as John paused for air. "I…."

"Let me, Sherlock. It'll be ok." John whispered, kissing his ear, licking his neck.

It took every ounce of courage Sherlock had to nod, unable to speak. Tension was creeping up on him, and John seemed to just know. He always knew. John eased over, to Sherlock's side. His hand captured the detective's, and placed it on his chest. Sherlock let his hand roam, the feel of John calming and enticing all in one. John rested his free hand on Sherlock's stomach, thumb swirling a tiny circle in the pale skin. John kissed Sherlock again, starting slow, holding back, and teasing. Sherlock got impatient, and lifted his head, wanting more of John's mouth. John let him in, and as Sherlock's tongue plunged between his lips, John's hand slid under the waistband of Sherlock's shorts.

Sherlock jumped, and froze. John had him fully in hand, literally. Hand so hot, grip not too tight but not tight enough….. John kissed him, and Sherlock eased as John's hand stilled. Sherlock was breathing fast, fear feeding the desire, and the fire that burned every inch of him lit into an inferno. John smiled, as Sherlock relaxed. His doctor leaned over him, put his arm under Sherlock's head, and looked him in the eyes.

John wouldn't let him look away; Sherlock couldn't. John's hand tightened around him, and Sherlock felt the earth move beneath him. John moved again, up so slowly, thumb just under the tip. Sherlock fought hard not to close his eyes, John's gaze was the single most important thing to him in that moment. John's eyes were dark, his face flushed. His doctor had him completely under his control. Sherlock's hips jerked once as John slid his hand down to the base of him, stroking back up in one long motion. John fought off a grin as Sherlock hardened even more, hips lifting to match his strokes. Any touch of fear he had been feeling was leaving, overcome by John's hands.

Sherlock had no ability to think. He was nothing but this feeling, arousal sweeping through every cell of his body, knocking down the walls of his mind. Sherlock was gone, and only this aching need was left. John saw the change in Sherlock's eyes. His eyes were burning, like silver stars on the edge of a supernova. John leaned down, capturing Sherlock's mouth again, tongue sweeping in, making him moan deeply in his chest. Sherlock was moving with his hand now, refusing to let John lift away. He had Sherlock where he needed him, so absorbed in his hand, his mouth he wouldn't have a chance to think, to be afraid.

John kissed his way down Sherlock's throat, admiring the rapid pulse with his tongue before moving on. John kissed Sherlock down his chest, tongue tasting, licking. He kept his hand at that steady rhythm, not too fast, he didn't want to rush it for his detective. John kept going, Sherlock's hand drifting to his hair, and the back of his neck. Every time John paused, and kissed, he stroked his detective's hard length, making Sherlock moan.

"John…" Nothing but a whisper, one John was certain Sherlock was unaware he'd said. Sherlock's eyes had drifted shut, one hand buried so deeply into the comforter it was likely ripped. The other was holding on to John, fingers losing and regaining their grip in his hair. John kept kissing down, to where his hand was pleasing his detective so. John moved Sherlock's shorts down, and away, enticing him into lifting his hips, distracted thoroughly.

John contemplated his options, and realized he had none, other than to make them both happy. John wanted to be with his detective, and there was no hesitation in his heart. John kissed Sherlock, where no one had ever been before. Sherlock responded by pulling his hair, but John persisted, and swallowed him whole. It wasn't unpleasant at all; John moved his hand away, and wrapped his tongue around Sherlock, wet and hot.

Sherlock couldn't find air, he felt nothing but John's mouth wrapped around his erection. It felt so _damn good, so hot and wet._ His muscles were seizing, and releasing. John lifted his head, sucking as he went, tongue teasing the underside of his cock.

John was amazed at himself, so incredibly turned on by the feel of this man in his mouth. He was so hard, and his hips lifted with John's mouth, tempo going faster. John encouraged him, cupping his balls with one hand, tugging as he sucked. He went faster, harder, taking him as deep as he could, before pulling back, and beginning again.

_This is for you, your first time, all for you…anything for you… I love you…_

John poured every ounce of love he could into his mouth, his hands, working Sherlock towards his climax. Sherlock was close, so close, and John wasn't going to stop until he came. It was a gift he so badly needed, and John needed to give it to him….

"_John!"_ Sherlock was undone. A wave of heat and sweet pain spilled from the foundations of his body, running through his veins, cascading over the walls of his heart, and tore through the streets of his mind, washing away all thought. Sherlock was undone, cast adrift. John had him, securing him, carrying the sensation farther, mouth taking Sherlock all in as he finally came.

"John…." Just a plea, a whisper, cast out into the world. John swallowed, his mouth wrapped tight, and helped Sherlock finish. _Yes….. Just let go…. I love you…._

John lifted away, and relaxed against Sherlock's hip. His head hurt for some reason, until he remembered that Sherlock still had a death grip in his hair. John smiled, kissed his love's hip, and carefully pried Sherlock's immobile fingers free from his hair.

"John…." Sherlock could barely manage that, as his body quaked from tiny tremors. "John, I love you."

John looked up at Sherlock, and caught his gaze. Sherlock was in a state John had never seen before, ever. Totally, hopelessly relaxed. And there was a tiny hint of a smile playing about his lips.

"I love you too." John moved back up the bed, laying on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock's heart was beating hard, and he was all loose muscles, and shaking hands.

John reached up to kiss him, but hesitated. Sherlock raised a brow, then understanding swept across his eyes. John blushed as Sherlock laughed, and he grabbed John's head, and pulled him down for a kiss, tongue sweeping across his lips before dipping inside. Sherlock was shaking, his tongue gentle on John's, and all soft caresses. Sherlock was unreserved, open, his face clearly showing every thought and feeling.

The afternoon was gone, the fall light slipping away into evening. Sherlock kicked off his shorts, and pulled down the blankets, tugging John to follow him under the covers. John went, shucking off his trousers and shorts before joining him. Sherlock wrapped himself around John, tucking his doctor's head under his chin, legs intertwined.

"You okay?" John had to ask, even though he knew Sherlock had enjoyed himself. John kissed at the soft spot under Sherlock's shin, smiling as Sherlock gave a tiny shiver.

"Hhhhhmmmm." Sherlock was still getting little quivers, and his toes had taken forever to unfurl from the force of his orgasm. "I assume so, but I've never done that before. Need more data before I can confirm."

"More data? What do you…. Oh right. More." John kissed his neck again, and licked, the taste of Sherlock all salty, making him very interested in acquiring more data. "Let's get some more."

"I'm fairly certain there's more to this, yes?" Sherlock's deep voice rumbled in John's ear, his voice full of curiosity.

"Um, yeah…. Never done any of it, but yeah." John knew exactly what Sherlock meant, and he felt a rush of excitement and fear flash in his stomach. Sherlock pulled John closer, one of his hands drifting down to caress a firm buttock. "Never done any of this, actually. With a bloke at least. Only ever had that last bit done to me, so I sorta knew what I was doing."

Sherlock seemed to be pondering this, his hand rubbing John's backside, long fingers strong and firm. John was distracted by his fingers, enjoying the buildup of heat. He was still aroused from earlier, but he had been content to relax, and let Sherlock enjoy his first orgasm. Or he was until Sherlock's fingers started touching him in all these new places. John pressed his hips against Sherlock; the sensation of his cock rubbing the detective's making him want to keep moving. John sighed, one of his hands drifting down Sherlock's side, his hip. Nudging his cock against Sherlock's, John was impressed at his lover's response, hardening quickly, and pressing back along his.

John groaned, shut his eyes, and kept up his little thrusts, the soft heat and hard muscles pulling away his thoughts. Sherlock's hand on his ass was gripping harder, pulling John to him, fingers inching closer to his rear. John nipped at his neck, tugging the skin between his lips and sucking. Sherlock groaned softly, pulling John as close as he could manage.

"John." Sherlock gasped, "You, or me."

"Mmm?" John wasn't thinking, too absorbed in the taste of his detective's skin, his hard cock rubbing on his own.

"John….. Can I please…?" Fingers went straight to the point, pressing against John's anus.

John jumped, froze, and held his breath as Sherlock pressed two fingers to him, the sensation so foreign he had no notion what to do. He groaned, Sherlock pressing himself against John's cock, long fingers pushing into his ass. John was swept up, what Sherlock was doing to him so completely new, so very hot, he got so hard that every tiny thrust of Sherlock's cock on his own made John whimper.

Sherlock took that as encouragement, kissing John roughly, his tongue eager, dancing between his teeth. John struggled to keep up, but his mind was focused on Sherlock's two fingers, which had loosened him up just enough to dip in. The stretching, the pressure, all so overwhelming John was panting into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock pressed his fingers in, almost an inch, and began to move them apart. John moaned, as Sherlock worked him, spreading his ass with his long fingers.

Sherlock lifted his face from John's, and asked him roughly, "Let me John, please..?"

He accompanied this plea with a deepening of his fingers, both fully inside of John, plunging them in and out. John was consumed by Sherlock, wanting him to keep going, so eager he pushed his ass back against Sherlock's hand. John nodded, and went back to sucking on the growing red spot low on Sherlock's neck.

"Don't worry, I borrowed your laptop." Sherlock whispered in John's ear.

John would have laughed if he had still been able to. Sherlock was lifting up, rolling John under him, chest down on the bed. John didn't want to stop his ministrations, but Sherlock was insistent. John went, and gasped as Sherlock jerked on his hips, lifting them briefly off the bed before he stuffed a pillow under him. His fingers grasped John's cock, stroking him several times before pulling his hand away, letting John rest on the folded up pillow.

John was breathing fast, nerves beginning to show. He knew Sherlock wasn't going to hurt him, that men did this every day to each other, and that men did it to women too. But he kept crashing into the thought that _Sherlock was about to fuck him, and he really, really wanted him too. _John's fists grabbed at the sheets, and he buried his face in his pillow. Sherlock's were grasping his hips, stroking his buttocks, fingers dipping into his ass, John's body accepting them easier each time. Again and again Sherlock would slip his long fingers in, stretch John's ass a bit more each time, before pulling them out all the way, just to push them back in. John was moaning in time with his lover's fingers, and he didn't pay any attention to the fact that Sherlock was moving up behind him, pushing his knees together. Sherlock pulled away his hand, and straddled John's legs, and leaned over his doctor, pushing his erection along the crack of his ass, pressing his chest to John's back. He bent down to bite the back of John's neck. John jumped, the bite not too hard, but he reveled in it, the feelings Sherlock was bringing out of him.

Sherlock whispered in John's ear, "Are you sure?" John groaned, impatient, and lifted his hips back into Sherlock's. "Dammit, yes!" John gasped into the mattress, heat washing over him, his nerves ready to collapse under the strain.

Sherlock lifted away, and John whimpered quietly, fearing Sherlock had changed his mind, that he wasn't ready. He feared that up to the moment he felt a warm, wet finger slide back into his ass. _Dear God, he did his research! _John lost it, realizing Sherlock was spitting on his fingers, lubing John's ass. John groaned, long and continuous, eagerly lifting his hips as Sherlock positioned himself closer.

_Yes!_ The head of Sherlock's hard, thick cock was there at his ass, pushing. Sherlock must have spit on the head, as it went easily in that first inch. He was so large, so much bigger than the fingers he had been worked with, that John tensed around him. Sherlock stopped, holding himself still, supporting his weight on one arm on the bed, the other on John's hip. The pressure was so strong; John felt the first twinge of pain. He shivered, wanting more, but he felt nervous, knowing it would hurt, afraid.

Sherlock pulled back, almost withdrawing totally, before working back in, going just a bit farther. John fought to relax, Sherlock rubbing his hip, soothing. He pushed, stretching John's ass, the pain feeling almost as good as the tension inside. Sherlock kept rubbing him, his warm hand distracting just enough, as he pulled out. Sherlock spit again, wetting the head of his cock. He swiftly plunged it back into John's ass, and John moaned loudly, pleasure and pain mixing until he couldn't tell them apart.

Sherlock seated himself fully, John impaled on his hard length. John was panting and whimpering, hands raking at the sheets, the sensation so new and overpowering John was damn near sobbing. Sherlock groaned. The tight heat of John wrapped around his cock was making him want to explode. All he wanted to do was plunge away, to ride his doctor until he came. This was madness, his control barely intact. Sherlock felt a stirring in the depths of his being, fire and need and a sensation so unfamiliar he had no name for it.

Sherlock pulled himself back from the edge, knowing he had to keep control, lest he hurt John. He wanted John, wanted him beneath him, but wanted John to enjoy himself too. So Sherlock held back his urges, and let his control take over. John was relaxing slightly beneath him, Sherlock's cock still lodged as deep as it could go. Sherlock pulled back, very slowly, one long inch at a time, before rocking his hips, and going back in. Slow and sure, no hesitation. This man beneath him his whole world. His only focus, the tight hot wet grip of John's body on his cock. Sherlock let his eyes drift shut, his head fall back, and he lifted himself up so he put his weight fully on his knees, and the man under him.

Sherlock's weight wasn't minor, but John took it easily. His cock was moving in a deep rhythm, and John felt a glorious sensation as the head swiped across the most sensitive spot of his body. John knew in some distant part of his brain that Sherlock had found his prostrate, and from the angle Sherlock was fucking him, he knew it too. John cried out at each thrust, each drag of his cock pulling out. His body was fully acclimated to Sherlock's cock, yet still tight and hot, and John gripped him instinctively each time he pulled out.

"Harder!" John managed to whimper, teeth clenched, groans being pulled from him with every thrust of Sherlock's hips.

Sherlock obliged him, and grabbed his hips tightly, pushing him down, and fucked him. Hard. Rode him without restraint. They both started to cry out together, bodies in perfect sync, Sherlock's tempo making John come part at the seams. Sherlock rode his doctor at a relentless pace, a primal urge to satisfy and dominate all at once ripping his control to shreds.

John was getting close to his climax, Sherlock driving him mercilessly. Sherlock had managed to work himself in deeper, John's body accepting him, pulling him in. Sherlock felt John begin to tighten up, clench around his length like a fist. He was bucking back against Sherlock's thrusts, their matched tempo failing as Sherlock drove John over the edge. John screamed, long and ragged, the sound hurting his throat. He screamed and screamed, pulling air in to just yell it back out into the mattress.

Sherlock thrust until John stopped screaming. He was close, and John's body was relaxing, his ass engulfing Sherlock completely. Sherlock watched as his cock was swallowed up, each time he pulled it out, absorbed and fascinated.

His own orgasm caught him by surprise, blasting from his core, more subtle than his first, but far more powerful. He screamed, long and deep, as he came inside John, great gushing spurts. He couldn't move, his body wracked by spasms, fingers digging into John's hips. Sherlock collapsed as his body refused to obey him, his full weight landing on John.

Neither could breathe all that well, bodies incapable of pulling in enough oxygen. Sherlock knew he should get up, but he couldn't. Nothing, muscles gone. He couldn't even feel his own body anymore. They laid like that for a long time, just trying to survive.

John moved, an arm moving out from under him, and he pushed up. Sherlock appeared to be dead, or at least he was doing an excellent impression of a dead person. John fell back down, laughing.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

"Mmmmm." Mumbled answer, no movement.

"Sherlock, I love you, I really do, but I can't breathe." John tried again.

Sherlock made an effort, he really did, but all he could handle was a shift in his weight.

"Oh no sir, you are not falling asleep on top of me! Off you go!" John pushed, and rolled Sherlock in towards the center of the bed. Sherlock fell off of him, withdrawing as he went, making John gasp in surprise. _Oh that's going to hurt later, I know it… So worth it…._

Sherlock managed to lift a hand, and pulled John down to him, who snagged the blankets, covering them both.

"I love you too." Sherlock whispered in his ear, before sleep claimed them.


	22. Chapter 22 The Palace

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me. Enjoy! There shall be more intrigue, drama, and love to come!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty Two<strong>

"_**The Palace"**_

They stayed there, in that bed, for what felt like forever. They didn't care that Mrs. Hudson came and knocked at the door a few times. Nor did they care that Mycroft came over, and sat in the front room for an hour, glaring at the bedroom door. Sometime about midnight they snuck out, running to the bathroom, and John raided the pantry for some snacks, before dashing back into the bedroom, and each other's arms.

John convinced Sherlock to show him what else he researched while borrowing John's laptop. Sherlock had lost all hesitancy, eager to please his doctor, his enjoyment so thorough John struggled to keep up. John relished the chance to be with his detective, just the two of them, their only focus each other. For two years they had been separated. John lost to grief and calmly accepting a less than perfect future; and Sherlock, alone, needing his anchor, his John, as the missions consumed him, wearing away at all the bright places John had brought to life in his soul.

John groaned, utterly spent, as Sherlock kissed his way back up his stomach, coming out from under the covers.

"I think I might die if we keep going." He panted, throwing an arm over his face, every inch of him emptied of energy. Sherlock threw himself next to John, resting his head on John's shoulder. His doctor's heart was racing, muscles lax. John dropped his arm, hugging Sherlock to him. "You really are good at everything, aren't you?"

"As far as I know, yes." Sherlock grunted as John poked him in the ribs. John wanted to laugh, but he could barely manage a chuckle.

Sherlock had no idea what time it was, the mobiles were still off, and it was dark out. It had been late afternoon or so when they had managed to get home, and escaping Mrs. Hudson had taken longer than Sherlock had liked. And then once he had John alone, Sherlock couldn't pretend to care about the rest of the world. Every touch, caress, kiss had fed the fire, and there was nothing else but John. Sherlock found himself wanting more, the heat from John's skin impossible to resist. Sherlock was exhausted, and he knew John was even more so. Sherlock's time abroad had given him far more stamina than his doctor had.

Sherlock looked at John, who was valiantly trying to stay awake. They'd caught some sleep in the afterglow of sex, but it had never lasted more than hour before one would be waking the other with curious hands and hot wet kisses in tantalizing places.

Sherlock's mind was clear, far clearer than it had ever been. Every sense primed, and his thoughts crystalline in their clarity. The light from the one small lamp in the corner seemed more real, and the sheets of the bed unbelievably smooth and cool under his hot skin. Sherlock just lay on John's shoulder, and watched as his doctor lost the fight and fell asleep. Sherlock let him, as his eyes traced the lines of the face he knew better than his own. The scent and texture of his skin, his body heat, the sound of his breathing; all of it Sherlock catalogued, analyzed, filed away inside his memories.

Sherlock ushered the memories down into his mind palace, walking them to their rightful place. Sherlock contemplated the place he usually kept John; the red chair Sherlock had designated as his the first time John sat in it. It didn't seem to fit anymore, his eyes kept wandering away from the chair and down the hall to the bedroom. Sherlock's eyes were still open, and he had that faraway look he'd get when deep inside his mind palace. He had an overlay of sensory input, his eyes seeing John as he really was in that moment, and the creation of Sherlock's visual memory of John in the palace bedroom. There Sherlock built John into a new reality, and anchored it permanently in place. As soon as he did, Sherlock felt a rush of endorphins, a flash of satisfaction. It resonated through his core, and every street, building, room and dim alleyway of his mind palace trembled. Sherlock closed his eyes, and let his city settle.

Usually such a reaction only occurred after a serious dose of narcotics, and never to such a degree. Sherlock contemplated his mind's reaction to his realignment of John's permanent place in his mind palace. John had been everywhere in his palace when Sherlock was gone; upon his return, and the change in their relationship, John had settled back into the palace flat. Sherlock knew it was because he hadn't needed the false comfort of cold memory anymore to survive, he had the real John. And now his mind reacted to John's presence as if he were a drug. Sherlock used to get high when he hadn't a case; then, once John entered his life, only when the stagnation of his mind became overwhelming. John had saved him from the extreme of addiction, merely by being in his life. John was his new addiction. Sherlock knew his attachment to John was serious, so serious it was beyond normal. But he had never cared much for what was considered normal. He hadn't exaggerated when he told John that his very cells were built around him. Sherlock Holmes could not exist anymore without John Watson.

Sherlock withdrew from his palace, eyes opening. He could usually send his body into a state of deep relaxation if he was in a secure place. He had habitually done so this time, and he felt like he'd gotten hours of sleep. John was still sleeping next to him in the same place Sherlock had arranged his image, inside the mind palace. Sherlock let him sleep, watching over him as the night faded away, and a new dawn lit the sky.

* * *

><p>Mary watched the sun rise over the Thames, the view from her borrowed room spectacular. The river was a ribbon of liquid gold in the dawn light, streaking out towards the sea. She had been in this country for almost six years, and she had never seen the river look so beautiful.<p>

Glad that some part of her morning was going well, Mary felt her stomach heave again, and she sprinted for the bathroom. She and Death had orchestrated a grand night of drinking and dancing, and in the chaos of the club, they had slipped out the back, and into a new car. Mary had helped the woman the world thought of as Sybil Moran vanish. Mary had spotted the Level Three surveillance team from the moment they left the Moran Manor house earlier in the evening. Mary knew that they had no idea who she was, but it was only a matter of time before they ran her identity. She wondered who would be more confused, MI6 in trying to connect a traitor's wife to the ex-fiancé of Dr. Watson, or John and Sherlock trying to connect Mary to a socialite with an urge to party. Their respective paths had never met in their current lives, and a part of her wished to be a fly on the wall when MI6 and Holmes pieced it all together. If they even could.

Mary knelt on the cool floor next to the toilet, wishing she hadn't drunk so many martinis trying to keep up the party girl image. Her head was pounding, and she knew she was dehydrated. She hadn't imbibed like that since she was a teenager. Death had knocked her's back like they were water. Which, now that she thought about it, most likely had been. She had been planning her disappearing act for several days, so she probably had the bartenders paid off. Mary hadn't cared; considering her week, she needed to blow off some steam. She couldn't go around killing clubbers, though she had been tempted several times when a persistent few hadn't clued into the fact _that she wasn't interested in a private party._

Her stomach was settling back to normal, and she stood to rinse her mouth in the sink. _I'm not doing that again for a while!_

A knock came at the bedroom door, and she padded over to it, her bare feet soundless on the wood floors. This was Death's safe house, but Mary took nothing for granted, coming up along the wall next to the door, listening.

"Mary." It was Death.

Mary opened the door, revealing her hostess holding a tray, with a tiny dish with two white pills in it and a large bottle of water. Mary grinned at her, and waved her over the threshold.

"Mind reading a new talent?" Mary asked, smiling thanks as she took the tray. Death laughed, walking over to the window, looking out at the river. The sun had risen enough that the river no longer glowed, and the light had filled the room. Mary quickly downed the aspirin, chugging the water. She was determined not to let her hangover last any longer than it had too.

"Any plans, Mary?" Death asked, still looking outside. The grounds of the house they were in stretched out in a vast green sea, all the way down to the river. There was a boathouse on the river bank, large enough to hold a decent sized boat. The house was an hour or so outside of London, somewhere on the north shore. Mary hadn't seen much of it the night before after they slipped unseen from the club. All she could tell is that the grounds were vast, the house was old, and until recently, unoccupied. The land and manor were well-tended, but the furniture was shrouded, and there were no signs of habitation. No pictures on the white walls, no scuffs on the hardwood floors from the passage of people, and sound echoed eerily through the halls.

"Plans?" Mary asked, standing next to Death, both women staring out to the river. Neither spoke for minute, their thoughts elsewhere.

"Your cover as Mary Morstan is blown. Magnussen has sold your current identity for information on a higher priority target. He has watched you since Sherlock Holmes returned from his hiatus on the Continent. It was he who tried to burn Dr. Watson alive, to see if Sherlock Holmes had vulnerability. He does, as it turns out. Though once your engagement to Dr. Watson was over, he apparently no longer needed leverage on you, and sold you for leverage on someone else." Death paused, and faced Mary, less than a foot between them. Her voice went low, urgent. "I can keep you hidden here, but only here. If you leave, I cannot guarantee your safety. You cannot lead them back here, not until my mission is complete. Once MI6 learns that the wife of a traitor has gone missing, the hunt will be on. Everyone shall be looking for me soon, and they saw us together at the club."

Mary looked Death in the eye, the younger woman slightly taller, and her gaze was direct as her words. Mary had no idea where this side of Death had hidden all these years; she had never, ever shown concern for anyone or anything before. Mary knew better than to assume it was affection, but it was close enough to make her heart tremble. If anyone was to ever garner the affection of this creature before her, Mary would hate to see the depths she would go for that lucky soul.

"Do you know who he's told, the ones responsible for the other morning?" Mary asked, and she saw Death nod.

"They were hired by the CIA. Seems they wanted you taken care of for certain this time. There has been no further chatter about them hiring more, or sending agents. The police know exactly what happened, thanks to Sherlock Holmes. No one knows about me, as of yet. And no one is actively looking for you. Not even your former masters. They appear to be reevaluating their plans."

"Why are you helping me?" Mary had to know. Death smiled, and Mary was astonished to see a hint of tears gather in the younger woman's eyes.

"I know what it's like to lose someone to Sherlock Holmes." Death smiled one last time, and there was a touch of that wild creature in her eyes as she looked away. She began to leave, walking slowly to the door. "I understand the pain of that lost love."

Mary was in shock. She could only stare in wonder. Someone had indeed caught the heart of Death. And Sherlock Holmes had broken it. She had to ask, there was no way she could stop the question, and it came unbidden from her lips.

"Who did you lose?" her question was quiet, yet the whisper seemed to echo through the room. Death stopped at the doorway, and looked back over her shoulder.

"His name was James." Mary's heart froze at that name, a chill wind blowing across her soul. Death nodded at the comprehension on Mary's face. "James Moriarty."

She left, her voice echoing down the hall. "I'll be downstairs once you decide on your plans, take your time."

No matter the amount of trouble Mary had been in for over twenty years, she knew none of it compared to the nightmare she found herself in now. _I should have taken my chances on the hit squad in the park! She loved James Moriarty. And from what John told me, it's entirely possible he loved her in return. She's his type: anarchy and madness. This is all madness!_

* * *

><p>"I'm dreading tuning it on."<p>

"Why?"

"I don't want to see the sarcastic texts from your brother."

"Then don't turn it on."

"I need my mobile, Sherlock!"

John tried not to laugh as Sherlock rolled his eyes at him, and went back to preening in the mirror. They'd gotten up only thirty minutes earlier, and it was damn near lunch time. Mrs. Hudson had left tea sometime that morning, but it was long cold, and John was starving. Having spent far too much time in the shower (John grinned at that memory), and now waiting on Sherlock to quit his visage in the mirror was making John antsy.

"Hurry up, you know you're gorgeous, I'm starving!" John groused, finally giving in and turning his mobile back on. Sherlock had turned his mobile back on as soon as he got dressed, thumbing through his messages so fast John was certain he hadn't read any of them. Of course John wouldn't be surprised if he had.

His mobile began to chime incessantly, alert after alert going off. Mercifully, not all of them were from Mycroft, though the majority was. John just sighed, and let them sit in the Inbox unread.

"You think I'm gorgeous?" Sherlock was staring at him in the mirror, the oddest look on his face.

"Well, yes." John was confused; surely Sherlock knew just how striking he was? That crazy head of downy soft curls, fair skin and breathtaking eyes, how could he not be gorgeous?

"Huh. Always thought I looked weird but alright." Sherlock shrugged, and darted out of the bathroom, heading for the front. Sherlock grabbed his coat, snagging John's as he went by it.

"Hurry up John!"

John just sighed, and followed his love out of the flat and down the stairs. Sherlock tossed him his coat at the bottom of the stairs.

John ran into Sherlock's back, the detective stopped, his hand raised to open the outer door. The inner door closed, dropping the light level and making John look up at Sherlock. The detective turned to him, damn near invisible in the shadows.

"Sherlock?" John couldn't see his face, but he felt Sherlock shift closer to him, arms spanning around his waist, under his jacket. John tipped his head back, expecting a kiss. He got his kiss, Sherlock's lips capturing his, long arms tight around John's waist, holding him close. John gave up thinking for feeling, enjoying the firm strong lips crushing his. John dropped his coat to the floor. Sherlock moved forward, pushing John up against the wall, as John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck. Sherlock took the kiss deeper, tongue demanding entrance. John sighed, letting Sherlock's tongue in, running his fingers through the detective's riotous curls. For a man who didn't know how to kiss a week earlier, his skill level was amazing. Sherlock had surpassed his tutor and become a master.

Sherlock lifted his lips, and John sensed more than saw the smile Sherlock gave him. John jumped, as Sherlock's hands twisted behind his back, pulling on his waistband.

"Sherlock! What…!" Suddenly there was a new weight on his belt, and Sherlock's hands withdrew slowly, fingers trailing along his hips before lifting away. John put a hand back, and felt his gun in its holster, snug at the small of his back. John had forgotten where it was, had left it in his coat.

Sherlock chuckled, deep voice filling the small space. He pulled away, and reached for the door. John just stood there for a minute, bemused. John nearly forgot to pick up his coat from the floor.

"Cheeky bugger." John growled, following Sherlock out the door, blinking at the sudden light. There was a black Jaguar purring at the curb, with a most aggravating, beautiful woman and her Blackberry too.

"Hello." Anthea smiled at them absently, clicking away at her mobile. She popped the rear door, and vaguely motioned at them to get in.

John grumbled under his breath, plans for food and relaxation evaporating. Sherlock tossed him an exasperated look, grabbing his hand and pulling him to the car.

"Anthea, do remind my dear brother that John needs to eat sometime soon. He gets a bit cranky when hungry." Sherlock tugged John into the back seat, reaching over him to close the door as Anthea clicked away at her mobile. She slid in the front, and the driver pulled them out into traffic.

The drive to Mycroft's London residence was quick, John simmering the way there. Sherlock just sat in silence, watching the city flash by the windows. Sherlock had known Mycroft wouldn't wait long. Once there were signs again of life beyond the bedroom he would have sent his car for Sherlock. Them, now. Sherlock had made John a promise; he would hold nothing back from John Watson again. And that meant that John would get the same level of clearance that Sherlock had.

John had never been to Mycroft's townhouse. He looked up at the front of it, all classic lines and white columns. There was no decoration, just a black wood and iron door that opened into a foyer that could have been cut from a single piece of grey marble. Sherlock didn't even hesitate, he took a hallway that swept out from the right, and went on for a long distance, towards the rear of the house. John followed, hands in his pockets, curious despite his aggravation. The rooms they passed were either closed up behind thick wood doors, or were so barren of personalization that they could have been museum settings. Sherlock kept walking, and the hall took a hairpin turn, spinning back towards the center of the house and down. The stairs were quiet, their steps loud echoing off the close interior walls.

Sherlock stopped at a large door, a strange LCD screen on the wall, little red lights blinking around the edge. Sherlock placed his hand flat on the screen, and John watched as a thin horizontal line of light swiped down Sherlock's hand, and back up. Sherlock pulled his hand away, and the image of his hand print remained in green on the screen. The red lights switched to a cheerfully green light, and chirped twice. The door opened of its own accord, sliding soundlessly on massive hinges. Sherlock motioned for John to proceed before him, and John swallowed once before stepping in.

The room itself was massive. Lines of computers, large display screens, and a dizzying collection of electronic equipment graced the upper terrace of the room, and a low set of stairs dropped to the lower level halfway across the space. John was shocked. The room was easily the size of the entire house above it, and the walls were a grey stone looking material that reminded John of old missile bunkers. John was impressed; apparently Mycroft took the whole MI6 role to a level James Bond would envy.

They weren't alone in the room. Mycroft stood next to the stairs, looking down to the next level. There were a dozen people in the room, their outfits all very similar. Same dark suits, white shirts, and carefully neutral expressions. John pegged them immediately for MI6; that look must be taught to all first year trainees. They either sat huddled over terminals, scanning through some form of information, or talking to each other in little groups, being careful not to attract attention to themselves. Their attitude clearly communicated that they were merely accessories to the elder Mr. Holmes, to be noticed only when needed.

Sherlock nudged John's shoulder, looking down at his doctor, one brow raised. John shook himself out of his surprise, and followed behind Sherlock as he walked up to his brother.

"I trust your sabbatical has left you in a more cooperative mood?" Mycroft asked, not turning to look at his guests. Sherlock stood at his shoulder, and stuffed his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels.

"Remarkably refreshed, brother dear. I'd recommend you try it, but I know how you feel about such things. And my mood is ever much the same, thank you." John smirked at the snark in Sherlock's tone, knowing Sherlock was just needling at Mycroft.

John looked about the room, his attention snagged by the lower level. He went around Sherlock, and stood at the railing that separated the levels. The lower level was a flat, open expanse, over a dozen meters wide, and the ceiling was high, all the way up to the higher level's ceiling. Strange lights glimmered in the shadows, and from the corners. John was puzzled, the lower level looked for all the world like the dance floor at a club, sans fake smoke and sweaty clubbers. The walls were all lined in what looked like thick sheets of glass, and the floor glittered darkly, like black sand was shining back at them.

John turned to Sherlock, his curiosity urging him to ask. He was surprised into silence. Sherlock was removing his coat, and his suit jacket, laying them over the railing next to John. He was wearing a snowy white shirt again, and the lights seemed to fluoresce strongly over the bright shirt. One of the agents had come over, holding a thin black box out to Sherlock. Sherlock lifted the lid, and John peered around his shoulder, at what looked like two silver bracelets, and an earpiece for a mobile. Confused, John watched as Sherlock locked the bracelets around his wrists, and little lights glowed out from inside the rings of metal. Sherlock turned on the earpiece, putting it to his ear, hiding it under his curls. The agent wordlessly retreated, sitting at a control panel of some sorts, with lots of screens. The agent touched a few buttons, and a deep humming noise reverberated through the large space, like generators of some kind had just powered on. The noise was subtle, but noticeable.

John was truly lost now, and he turned to catch Sherlock looking at him with a smug expression. Sherlock winked, and then fluidly walked down the stairs to the level below. John made to follow, but Mycroft moved to stop him, hand raised.

"Stay here, Dr. Watson." Mycroft didn't even look at him, just nodded for John to watch Sherlock instead.

John turned his gaze back to his lover, and watched in amazement. Every step Sherlock took across the strange floor made lights shoot out from all areas of the lower level, a mix of blues, greens, reds, and silvery white. _Lasers?_ The lights weren't shooting randomly, they collected together at the bracelets on Sherlock's wrists, as if he held light under his command. Sherlock walked with the lights, their colors blending intensely at his wrists. He stopped in the center of the room, facing the far wall.

"Please access the Lazarus Project." It was Sherlock's voice, but it was being piped out from hidden speakers in the room, echoing slightly. John shivered, and leaned his arms on the railing, absorbed completely. Sherlock's voice was always deep and slightly ominous, but hearing it echo throughout the great stone bunker made him sound inhuman. It was as if they were all standing in a dragon's cave, the beast about to breathe fire from the depths.

The agent at the control panel typed in a command, and suddenly Sherlock lifted his hands, up and out from his sides. The lasers took this as an order of some kind, and hundreds of them changed angles, blending and bleeding together to create images. John drew in breath, and he realized finally what he was seeing. Sherlock was standing on a giant holographic projection field, something straight out of a science fiction novel. He moved his hands, and images separated, lining up in the air before him, like he was conducting a symphony of light instead of music. John watched, and he felt like he had seen Sherlock do something like this before, a nagging sense of déjà vu.

Great floating panels of pictures, files, even videos that played automatically, all hung in the air, spun from light. Sherlock waved a hand, and they all froze, and he turned to another clear space of air, moving his hands again in a vaguely familiar way. Up, to the side, his fingers plucking files from folders, dropping them to open in the air, information spilled out in great swaths of light. The bracelets seemed to be translating his movements to the computers, which in turn sent the information Sherlock wanted back to the lasers, and they created the information in the air before him. Sherlock continued on, until the entire lower level was alive with light. Sherlock stood calmly amongst it all, eyes assessing, tracking, searching among the information for something.

John was able to clearly see the files, the pictures, the videos. Sherlock snapped his fingers once, and all the light screens came alive, the videos playing, sound churning quietly in the background. He moved about the floor, walking calmly and sedately through the projected information, stopping briefly before moving on. John was close enough to see several files, and he stood up once he saw the dates. They were mission files, all dated while Sherlock was dead. Or at least pretending to be dead.

_These are all of Sherlock's missions, the ones he went on taking down Moriarty's network! Oh my God! _John read on, seeing the mastery before him. Sherlock had been ruthless, diabolical in his pursuit of the syndicate members. There was a video of Sherlock leading what looked like a tactical team into a decrepit warehouse buried in the woods; a list of agents Sherlock had summarily singled out for arrest or eradication. Sherlock hadn't paused for more than a few days in between one mission ending and the next beginning. The authorizing officer behind each mission was Mycroft. The status pictures of Sherlock as the months dragged on showed a man so far removed from the person John knew that his heart ached. Sherlock had been weathered by the harshness of his reality, alone, and doing work of absolute necessity.

He didn't even recognize Sherlock in some of the footage either. His hair had been brushed back from his face, eyes tired, glittering brightly, hard as diamonds. He was in tactical gear in the majority of shots, a gun in hand, the weapon and gear so foreign to John's mental image of Sherlock he had to force himself to look again, to make sure it really was his detective.

There was one picture, one that made John clench his jaw, and shoot a murderous look at Mycroft. It was recent from the dates, and taken several days before Sherlock's return to London. He was clearly in some form of medical facility, dirty, bloody, and ill-kept. He was naked but for a pair of rough spun trousers, no socks, and leaning with his hands braced on a table as someone wiped down his back. It was his back and sides that made John furious. Broken skin, huge bruises, and from the way Sherlock was holding himself, he had a few fractured ribs. His wrists were bruised, as if he had been restrained. He had been beaten, severely. John saw red, and advanced on Mycroft. He had no control over his actions, and he was going to destroy Mycroft for putting his detective through something like that.

Mycroft saw him coming, alarm making him drop that snarky look he usually wore. John was only a couple of feet from him, fist raised, aiming at his nose, when a pair of strong arms caught him back. John growled, determined to beat Mycroft down to a similar state Sherlock had been in.

"John, I'm fine now. John, it's okay." Sherlock spoke into his ear, arms wrapped tightly around him, holding him back, tight to his chest. Sherlock dragged him back, and John lifted his arms to grab at Sherlock's wrists. He pulled in a deep breath of cool air, and let Sherlock soothe him. John didn't drop his eyes from Mycroft's face, letting the older man see his rage. Mycroft's expression was a mix of alarm and surprise, as if he were confused about why John had reacted so strongly to the picture. Mycroft's eyes flickered to the picture in question, and he grimaced. John had seen Sherlock's state, and correctly assumed that it was Mycroft's fault. The brief flash of what could have been guilt glimmered in the older man's eyes, and John relied on Sherlock to hold him back. Mycroft's' face just confirmed it for him, and John found himself actually hating Mycroft in that brief second.

Sherlock tightened his grip, and dragged John down the stairs to the holo-floor. John let him, not willing to find himself in lockup for beating the snot out of the most powerful man in the British Government. Sherlock kissed his neck, and started laughing quietly in his ear.

"If only we knew each other growing up, my dear doctor. Somehow I think my childhood would've been far more enjoyable." John turned in Sherlock's arms, and put his hand to Sherlock's ribs, were the worst of the bruises had once been. He pushed, hard, and caught a faint flicker of unease in his lovers' eyes.

"Christ, Sherlock! Broken ribs? Why the hell didn't you tell me? Those take a minimum of six weeks to heal! And from the way we've been running around the last two weeks, it's a wonder they even got to heal this much! Obviously the bruising is gone, but the ribs! You should have said something!" John was mad, and wasn't afraid to show it. Though he was far angrier with the elder Holmes.

Sherlock looked slightly sheepish, but leaned down to kiss John firmly on the lips. "I am fine now, they just ache once in a while, nothing to worry about. And I love you very much." Sherlock grinned at him, and John relaxed enough at the beseeching face of his love to kiss him back. Sherlock kissed him until the tension eased from John's shoulders, and he reached up to wrap his arms around Sherlock's neck. His kiss soothed John, until a new tension made John blush, and duck his head to Sherlock's shoulder.

"We really shouldn't make out in front of half of MI6 and your big brother." John grinned, his arms still around Sherlock's neck. Sherlock hugged him, and kissed his temple.

"I don't know, it may do them so good." Sherlock replied, chuckling. Sherlock leaned back, and caught John's eye. "Better now? You aren't going to make me explain to my mother why my lover beat up my older brother?"

John laughed, and shook his head. "I'm fine now, sorry. Back to work, you." John let go of Sherlock, and turned to go back to the stairs. Sherlock stopped him, and instead pulled him to a small flat space in the center of the room, making him stand directly on it.

"If you stand here, you won't interfere, and the lasers will work around you. Stay and watch with me, see if you spot something I missed." Sherlock kissed him on the brow, and went back out to the floor, his hands reactivating the light show. John watched, pleased that Sherlock had included him.

John cast a glance back up to Mycroft, who was standing at the railing like nothing had happened. He was talking to two of his people, who were showing him something on a tablet, most likely a video. John shrugged, and went back to watching Sherlock.

Sherlock had resumed his walk, eyeing each file, each video thoroughly before moving on to the next. John watched him, his hands, and how he looked. John was closer to him now, and his actions made a light go off in John's brain. _This is how he moves when he's in his mind palace! This is a real world version of Sherlock's mind!_ John felt a sense of awe, and he felt incredibly touched to be included in this, no matter how little he felt he was contributing to Sherlock's research. He watched Sherlock, beyond content. He was seeing a very small part of what Sherlock was capable of, and he treasured the gift his detective gave him.

John looked back at the picture of the beaten and bloody detective, and he must have made a face, because suddenly Sherlock was at his shoulder, and with a wave of his elegant hands, the entire file was right in front of them. Sherlock minimized the picture, and expanded the file itself. John read along, seeing that it had been Sherlock's last mission before he came home. He had infiltrated the compound of a man named Baron Maupertuis, a weapons dealer and arms trafficker in Serbia. John looked at the list of weapons the man had dealt in, and it wasn't until he got to the bottom that John put his hand out, stilling Sherlock as he was about to wave it away. Sherlock looked at him, one brow raised in question.

"Sherlock, what was the type of incendiary used at Blackwood?" John asked, eyes intent on the list, excitement curling in his stomach.

"A mixture primarily composed of Triethylaluminium, a pyrophoric material. I sent the lab results here the other morning." Sherlock waved his hand, and there was a small screen pulled up next to the weapons list, and Sherlock scrolled down it until he found his data packet, opening it and asking the computers to compare the weapons on the list to the residual evidence at the crime scene.

It took less than ten seconds for a _beep _to echo through the vast space, and the chemical signatures of the evidence and the confiscated weapons flashed green. A perfect match. Sherlock broke out into a wide grin, grabbing John and spinning them both around in a dizzying circle.

"John! Invaluable as always!" Sherlock waved his hands, and in a split second, all of the screens of light fell away, but for the ones they were actively using. "Mycroft! John has found something!"

Mycroft looked up from his tablet, handing it back to one of his aides, before descending the short flight of stairs to where John and Sherlock stood. John moved over, letting the other Holmes stand in front of the screens too.

"A perfect match, in composition. The type of weapons used at Blackwood are indeed the same type of weapons we seized at the Baron's compound." Mycroft paused, and he reached out, trying to touch the screen that held the weapons list. "Sherlock, see if you can't find the Baron's shipping lists, the ones that catalogue the weapons as he received them."

Sherlock waved a hand, fingers darting out into the light, plucking a manifest from thin air, and expanded it out for them to see. Mycroft traced the list down, and just before he got to the incendiaries, Sherlock gasped. "They don't match! There were more weapons received than were seized! He didn't sell them either. Some are missing."

John watched, as Sherlock pulled out the entirety of the mission files, flinging them out into the air. They spun, settling, as Sherlock flipped through them all at lightning speed. He was literally tearing through air, looking for the source of the discrepancy.

"I can't see where it happened." Sherlock groused, scanning the images. "The Baron received thirty crates, MI6 seized twenty. Must have happened when I wasn't around to see. It was after you pulled me out, sent me home."

John was thinking hard, and he stared at the manifests. Something didn't seem right. Weapons of this caliber didn't just disappear, and yet they had. So he reached out his hand, and tried tapping at the light.

"Sherlock? Where did they come from originally? The weapons? Before the Baron got them?"

"They were from ….. " Sherlock tapped at the light, and the screen promptly responded. "A shipment was hijacked several years ago, by black market dealers. They were then bought by the North Koreans, but for some reason never made it to that country. They got redirected to Eastern Europe."

"So the Baron could have been holding them for someone? He procured them for the North Koreans, and let them sit there? Instead of shipping them to the people who bought them?"

"That's appears to be what happened yes. Though it doesn't explain where they are now." Sherlock responded, fingers under his chin, the bracelets glowing against his white shirt.

"Are you sure? Who did we just stop from destroying Parliament, who also worked for the North Koreans?" John asked, feeling like he just pulled off a magic trick. Sherlock dropped his hands, and looked to John, surprise evident on his face. Mycroft turned to the doctor as well, and smiled slightly.

Sherlock turned back to the screens, muttering something about "coincidences and the universe." Mycroft followed along, as Sherlock pulled up the evidence lists from the Underground Bombing attempt the previous week. He scrolled through them, and stopped on the identifiers, the manufacturer's codes printed on the blocks of explosives. He tapped those, and had the computer compare the tracking numbers to the weapons found at the Baron's compound. Another happy _beep _went off, and the matching codes lit up in green.

"Made by the same company, and were part of the same original shipment that got hijacked." That was Mycroft, satisfaction thick in his voice. He snapped his fingers, and one of his aides ran down the stairs to them.

"Sir?"

"We will need to see Lord Moran as soon as possible please. Have Anthea arrange our visit." The agent nodded before scampering away, heading to the back of the room where Anthea stood. "It's obvious he has some connection to this disciple, whether he supplied the weapons, or he knew of their existence."

Sherlock waved his hands once more, dropping them in finality as the lights dimmed, the screens flickering out, and the humming in the background stopped. John felt like his ears needed to pop. Sherlock unclasped the bracelets, tossing them in his hands as they all walked back up to the top level.

"Why wasn't this noticed before? The connection?" Sherlock mused, mostly to himself. He dropped the bracelets back into the waiting box, pulling the earpiece back out from under his hair. He dropped that in as well, and clicked the lid shut.

"We weren't present as the evidence was catalogued, brother dear. That was left to lesser mortals." Mycroft walked off, as one of his aides waved for his attention.

John grimaced at his retreating back, glad he couldn't see. Sherlock was lost in thought. At least John assumed he was, until Sherlock reached out, and pulled John under his arm.

"How do you always do that?" Sherlock mused, his breath blowing into John's ear, making him grin.

"Do what?" John asked, wrapping his arm around Sherlock's waist, enjoying the tickling on his ear and neck.

"Illuminate the obvious." Sherlock dodged John's fist as it lightly jabbed at his side. John was just playing, very aware of the detective's ribs.

"I happen to think it's a special talent, otherwise all the smart people of the world would still be looking for a clue." John said, all serious. Sherlock chuckled, and the sound made John's knees get all weak. _I will never tire of that laugh!_

There was a small commotion from one of the terminals, and Anthea was practically running to Mycroft's side. She pulled on his sleeve, whispering in his ear. Mycroft's head rose up in surprise, disbelief clear on his face. John and Sherlock took note, Sherlock grabbing at his coat and jacket, and they met Mycroft halfway.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, pulling his outer garments back on.

"Lord Sebastian Moran is dead, he died less than an hour ago."


	23. Violet and the Snipers

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me. **

**Warning: Swearing! **

**Enjoy, review! Read on, fellow fans!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty Three<strong>

"_**Violet and the Snipers"**_

"Have you decided then? What you want to do?" Death asked, as Mary stepped into the ballroom. Her voice echoed in the large space, brightly lit by the morning sun. Golden wood and white drapes complimented the airy environment of the ballroom, and the room had an aura of welcome to it.

The room was shrouded, like the rest of the house, with large plank tables oddly out of place in the elegant space. The rough wood tables held an assortment of gear, crates, and large boxes underneath them. One of the tables held several computers, and several types of communications equipment. Weapons lined up along the top of the nearest table, in neat rows that spoke of long association with weapons. Death sat on a bench at the halfway point of the table in the middle, cleaning a disassembled pistol. She wielded the tiny brush with precision, making certain to get all the tiny nooks and crannies.

Mary walked down the center table, idly glancing at the items arranged on it. She stopped at a familiar sight. It was her personal weapons case, the one she had left at the house two days ago, when she had gone flat hunting. Beside it was the bags she had packed, in preparation for leaving the house she had shared with John. Her heart gave a tiny leap, and she shuttered away the pain before it could overwhelm her.

Mary tugged one open, smiling as she saw her clothing and personal items.

"Thank you for this." Mary waved a hand at her belongings, and walked the rest of the way down, sitting on the bench next to Death. She sat with her back to the table, leaning on its edge, legs stretched out in front of her. "And I have some questions I need answered, before I decide."

"Go ahead. I've got nothing to hide. I'm betting you already guessed at my plans, as I gave you my motive earlier." Death kept cleaning the gun pieces, rubbing away at the slide with a cloth. She was relaxed, her attention locked on her task. Mary watched her, and then looked ahead to the far wall. There was a large square object under a white dust cover, about ten feet tall and twelve feet wide. It came out from the wall another ten feet. It was a very large boxlike item, whatever it was.

"First, I know you asked me to help you disappear at the club last night to throw everyone off. I'm the distraction. Otherwise, you could have easily disappeared on your own, no help needed. I'm going to keep MI6 and Holmes busy, while you carry out your plans. Whether I help you or not from this point on, I've already served my purpose."

"Yes. I knew you'd figure it out. I didn't bother hiding my intentions. You could have said no." Death replied, her voice clear, no emotion. "And I'm really not trying to hide my identity, either. The only thing that must be hidden is where we are. My husband's imminent death will tell Sherlock who I am and give a fairly clear signal that I'm not messing around."

"I'm assuming you plan on getting revenge on Sherlock Holmes for the death of James Moriarty." Mary said, no judgment in her voice. Death nodded, and continued to clean the gun.

"Correct, keep going." Death said. Mary cast her a wary look, and figured she might as well ask.

"Do you plan to kill him?" Mary looked at Death, watching her face. There was no emotional response to Mary's question, as if she had calmly offered tea to the woman next to her.

"I do." Death said, her tone steady. There was no excuses, no skewed rationales. She knew what she was doing, and it bothered her not at all.

Mary turned back to the wall, and had a sudden urge to run up to the large object under the shroud, and yank it off, revealing what was hidden underneath. Mary quelled that urge, and thought about Sherlock dying at the hands of Death. She hadn't lied to John that night Sherlock returned, she did indeed like the detective. Or she had, until he took John, and made her life fall apart around her. She drew in a shaky breath, swallowing back the rage she felt, the hurt from her badly injured heart.

"I'm okay with that." Mary said, her pain coming out clearly in her voice. Death put down the piece she was cleaning, and finally looked at Mary. Her eyes were those of that wild creature she so resembled. Her face was impassive, in control. Mary struggled for control, determined not to lose it, not in front of her.

"Magnussen. He is going to keep selling me off to the highest bidder until one of them gets me. He knows my current identity, who I was before. He may have sold me out to the CIA, but there's far scarier people out there, people I don't want looking for me. He needs to be stopped, and I need a new name."

"I can help with that, easily. Shouldn't be an issue." Death made that guarantee casually, didn't even blink. Mary breathed out a sigh, and she hated herself for asking her next question. Mary tried to smile, her eyes broadcasting her heart ache to the other woman.

"What about John?" Mary asked, her voice breaking, much to her disgust. She bit her lip, and tried to hold back the tears. Death shifted, and the hand closest to Mary crept out to her, and wrapped around her upper arm. Death just squeezed, and gently held on.

"John Watson is a prominent part of my plan. Whether he lives or dies depends on Sherlock." Death told her, voice blunt, but there was shadow of something in it. Something close to compassion. Mary knew Death saw her rage, her hurt, the insult dealt to her heart and pride. Death squeezed again, and Mary found herself crying, tears flowing out uncalled. Never had she had such trouble controlling her emotions, and she felt weak letting them out now. Mary swiped at them, but she kept crying. She was suddenly wrapped up in the younger woman's arms, Death holding Mary's head to her shoulder.

"I will make them pay, Mary. For your sake and mine." Death whispered. Mary cried harder, and she found herself holding the other woman back, clinging to support from this unlikely source.

"Will you help me?" Death asked, and a gorgeous smile broke across her features as Mary nodded, still weeping in her arms. "This will all be over soon, I promise."

* * *

><p>"Dead? What do you mean, dead?" John asked, disbelief obvious in his voice. Mycroft looked uncomfortable, and he smiled faintly.<p>

"Cardiac arrest, or so the doctors at the prison are claiming." Mycroft replied.

"This is oddly inconvenient, isn't it? We just learn we need to speak to him, and he's dead?" Sherlock said, his eyes getting that distant look when he started thinking hard.

"I shall send the body to Bart's." Mycroft declared, and Anthea appeared like magic at his side. She didn't even need him to finish the sentence before she was clicking away at her mobile, presumably sending out instructions.

Sherlock took off, striding to the nearest computer station, rudely shooing the occupant out of his way. Sherlock took the chair, and he immediately began typing in commands.

John went to stand at his shoulder, Mycroft following. John watched as Sherlock accessed the prison's security feeds, the time logs, prisoner records.

"He was perfectly fine when he was first arrested, he was given a physical exam. The doctors cleared him, he had no obvious risk factors for heart disease. Nor any other disease for that matter." Sherlock paused, and looked up at John. "How likely is it that he would just drop dead of a heart attack when he was considered healthy?"

"Anyone can have a heart attack, truly. Even if you are perfectly healthy. Embolism, undiscovered heart defects, injury, toxins, poisons, excessive stress, fear. Seriously, that's what a post-mortem is for." John replied, and Sherlock huffed, turning back to screens.

"Could he have committed suicide?" Mycroft asked, addressing John. "He was being charged with terrorism, treason, and hundreds of counts of lesser charges."

"Suicide by heart attack? That's an incredibly painful way to go. Unless it happened fast enough he didn't feel it, though that's unlikely." John answered, watching Sherlock. His lover had stopped, and John leaned in to watch a video feed over his shoulder. "And how could he cause one deliberately?"

It appeared to be a visitation, between Moran and a beautiful young woman dressed in black. She was all elegance, and lovely grace. John was struck by the way she moved, every turn of her head, the sweet smile on her face, all perfection. She seemed so familiar, and John struggled to place her.

"Who is she?" John asked Sherlock, but it was Mycroft who answered.

"That is Lady Sybil Moran, his wife."

"That's Moran's wife? Good Lord, isn't she a bit young for him?" John was surprised, he couldn't see the gorgeous creature on the screen married to a man so much older than her. He found himself smiling despite the circumstances as she gracefully got up from her chair, and went and kissed her husband goodbye. Her kiss was sweet, and she had a smile on her face as she left.

Sherlock rewound the footage, and pulled a headset from under the desk. He ignored everyone, and played back the visit again, sitting insanely close to the screen. Sherlock sucked in a breath as Sybil Moran bent down to kiss her husband, and he turned the footage back again, and again. He pulled back abruptly, and ripped the headset off. He turned up the speakers, and zoomed the footage in close, watching as she bent and kissed her husband.

"Listen." Sherlock ordered, playing the audio on loud.

"_You're wearing it, Sybil."_

"_Of course I am! Silly Sebbie, why wouldn't I wear the ring of the man I loved more than anything in this world?"_

Sherlock stopped the footage, and zoomed in again. On her hand was a flash of gold, a ring.

"Why wouldn't she say '_Of course I'm wearing your ring.' _Why did she phrase it like that? And if it was something he wanted her to wear, or it was a piece she wore all the time, he wouldn't have mentioned it like that. Like he was upset she had it on." Sherlock questioned, and he played the audio back again. Moran sounded upset, not at all happy.

"What's the ring then?" John asked, peering at the screen.

Sherlock zoomed in the last time, and as the image cleared, John felt like the world dropped out from beneath him. There was a haunting sense of familiarity about it, like he should know who it belonged to. It was an **M**, black and masculine, set in Welsh gold. It was a man's signet ring, and did not seem to be hers, as she wore it on her largest finger, as if it were too big.

"**M **for Moran? Not likely. She spoke in the past tense, as if the previous owner of the ring was dead." Sherlock sounded excited, and he had an expression on his face John hadn't seen for two years. He hadn't looked like that since a certain madman was alive. "She isn't wearing Moran's ring. It's Moriarty's."

"Now hang on Sherlock! That lovely girl can't be Moriarty's disciple. Seriously? Can she?" John was confused, trying to reconcile the image of the young noblewoman before him with his mental image of a cold-blooded disciple bent on revenge.

Sherlock didn't reply, just played the audio again.

"_Why wouldn't I wear the ring of the man I loved more than anything in this world?"_

"Let's look at all the facts, shall we?" Sherlock stood, and began pacing. "First, Lord Moran attempts to destroy the British government. We catch him, he's incarcerated. No contact with the outside world, other than his wife and a lawyer. The lawyer is clean, yes?" Sherlock asked Mycroft, who nodded. Sherlock went back to pacing, hands and arms moving excitedly. "He cannot be the one who orchestrated the overdone fireworks show at Blackwood. Sure, he may have been aware of it, even ordered it, but that makes no sense now that he's dead. If he was avenging Moriarty, why would he die? Wouldn't he be trying to escape, get revenge in person? Sure, he might want to get revenge for his capture and arrest, but that brings us right back around to the fact he can do nothing while in that secure facility. And he wouldn't use those words, the ones in blood at Blackwood. He would have said _I _instead of _WE._ We know from Mycroft's investigation that Moran received orders from outside the country to blow up Parliament. If he were the last disciple, wouldn't he be giving the orders instead?"

"The only reason for Moran to be killed would be to keep him from revealing someone _else's _plans. He knew something, something important enough to kill him over it. It can't be the lawyer, he never made physical contact with Moran. Sybil comes in, kisses him, and he's dead within a day? Honestly, that's just too perfect for it to be coincidence."

"And then there's the connections between my last mission, the explosives used by Moran in the bombing attempt, and the incendiaries used at Blackwood. This whole thing stinks of connections to Moriarty! The man is dead, and he's still causing mayhem!"

"Think about it. It's the perfect cover. Young socialite, easily noticed and then dismissed as unimportant. Nothing but a pretty face to the outside world." Sherlock was all manic energy, conviction pouring off him in waves.

Sherlock stopped pacing, and looked at the screen, to the image of Sybil Moran kissing her husband. "I'd be willing to bet that she killed him, with that kiss. Did you see how he froze up when she kissed him? He didn't kiss her back. So, a kiss from her is not usual." Sherlock motioned to the picture, and he was right, Moran was not kissing his very beautiful wife back. "There's no way an otherwise healthy man, who's being monitored every second, suddenly develops a heart condition without someone noticing something wrong."

"Sybil Moran is the disciple. She wears a ring for the man she loved? Her words make it clear that whoever that was is dead. She was close to him, so very close that she could know the words that Moriarty said to me that day at the pool. And she used those words at Blackwood, written in blood. A threat and promise all in one."

"Have Molly test for toxins immediately after she receives Moran's body. Moran took orders from his North Korean masters, and brought attention to bear where it shouldn't have been. He failed, she got noticed as the wife of a traitor. She killed her husband because he was no longer useful, he knew too much to let him live, and he knew who Moriarty's last disciple was." Sherlock didn't wait for Mycroft's reply; he whipped out his mobile and began typing, most likely to Molly.

"Sherlock, are you sure?" John knew better than to doubt Sherlock, but he was having trouble wrapping his head around Sherlock's theory. He kept jumping around, his connections tenuous yet equally solid.

"Yes John! If he was the disciple, he wouldn't be dead! He most likely would never have been caught in the first place! Moriarty didn't suffer fools." Sherlock was pacing again, all nervous energy.

"Where is she now? I am assuming correctly that you've had surveillance on her since her husband's arrest?" Sherlock asked Mycroft. Mycroft nodded, and gestured the lost looking aide back into the chair Sherlock had shoved him from. John just stood and watched, struggling not to be lost in Sherlock's reasoning.

"Bring up the surveillance videos of Sybil Moran please. Last forty eight hours." Mycroft ordered.

The aide worked quickly, and the screens filled with video footage of Sybil Moran. Shopping, going out to lunch, walking a tiny dog on a thin leash, every activity normal for a young woman who had too much money and no purpose in life. The most recent shot was of her and another woman dressed up for a night out, getting into her town car.

"We have nothing more recent than this, sir. The teams reported that her car returned to the Moran household from a club around 3 AM." The aide reported, and he replayed the video of Lady Moran getting in her car with her companion on one of the larger screens.

It was that video that made John swear in disbelief, reaching out and freezing the video.

"_That can't be….!_" John breathed in shock, hand shaking as he pointed to the blonde woman in the shot next to Lady Moran. "Mary?"

Sherlock moved in close, Mycroft right next to him. There was an older woman in the frame next to Lady Moran, with very bright, short blonde hair. She was short, but perfectly muscled. Trim legs showed off to perfection in the short beaded black mini she wore. Black high heels, and a diamond pin flashing from her hair. Her eyes were done up in smoky blacks and greys, accentuating her bright blue eyes. She was beautiful, and had a predatory look about her that screamed power. It was a look John had never seen on her, but it was unmistakably Mary Morstan.

"What is your former fiancé doing with Sybil Moran?" Mycroft asked, eyes narrowed at John.

"She disappeared after an attempt was made on her life. There was another woman present in the park as well, one I couldn't identify." Sherlock looked at John, but his doctor was lost in shock, just watching as the video feed started up again, replaying her exit from the manor.

"Run them both through the facial recognition programs, see what happens." Sherlock ordered the aide, who immediately typed in the command. Portraits of both Mary and Sybil Moran appeared to the side on another screen, green dots and lines connecting their facial features, as the system tried to find matches. Pictures flew by at undecipherable speeds, as the computers processed and discarded each potential match.

John tore his gaze away from the screen, and his expression hardened. He shook his head, and walked away. He went to the stairs down to the holo-floor, and sat. John put his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands, and just sat there, saying nothing. He was past the point of acceptance, and he needed a moment alone. Mary had kept so much from him, and now it seemed she was in league with someone who used to work for Moriarty.

_Mary may have worked for Moriarty!_ _I lived with her, slept with her, planned on marrying her. None of it was real. If she worked for Moriarty, is it possible the disciple sent her after me on purpose?_

John distantly heard Mycroft tell Sherlock that the facial program could very well take a while, and Sherlock replied back that Mycroft needed to find out where the women were for certain. Just because the car returned to the house, doesn't mean the women did. He asked Mycroft to get the surveillance teams to confirm their current location, before John couldn't hear anything else. It was quiet in the large room, the only sounds the echoing rustle of people moving about the hard floors, and the tiny beeps as the computers discarded one match after another.

John looked out down to the floor below him, where Sherlock had invited him to watch the real world version of his mind palace in action. He sighed, and tried his best to let go of his anger. He had been so mad for so long, and he hated what it was doing to him. He wasn't built to be angry all the time, it was making him feel worn out, older.

"Mycroft designed it for me." Sherlock sat down next to John on the step, leaning his elbows back on the next step up.

"What?" John said, struggling to focus. He looked at Sherlock, who gave him a tiny smile in return.

"The holographic interaction program, the lasers." Sherlock waved a hand at the floor below them. "Mycroft said he was fed up with not being able to see my cases as I saw them, so he made this. It was more for him than me, really. He designed it around my descriptions of my mind palace, the techniques I use to view and process information."

"Huh. I was right, then. I guessed it was something like that, actually." John leaned back as well, matching Sherlock's posture. He knew Sherlock was attempting to distract him, and John let him. "It was from the way you were moving your hands, it's exactly like how you move when you're in your mind palace."

"I've only ever used it once before, back when he first built it. I came back for a brief spell about a year ago. So he dragged me down here, made me try it out." Sherlock looked down at his feet, and he seemed to be looking for something else to say.

"You came back last year? When?" John know he shouldn't ask, that it would just stir up more trouble. He didn't want Sherlock to be upset, thinking John was still angry at him for faking his death.

Sherlock looked at him, and his face was a strange mix of happiness and grief. "I came back for your birthday."

John blinked in surprise, and he found himself choking up a little, the emotions swirling just under the surface. "You came back for my birthday?" John thought hard, and remembered. "Harry threw me a party at a local pub. She got drunk, everyone was uncomfortable, and I was in no mood for having fun. It was dreadful, actually."

"I could tell, you looked miserable." Sherlock replied, casting John a look out of the corner of his eye. "I was there."

John turned to Sherlock, pulling one leg up on the step he was on, facing his lover. "You were there? Tell me."

"I was in a black car parked across the street. Sat there the whole time. I fought the urge to just run across the street, and into that pub. I really wanted to see you. But I couldn't, I hadn't taken out all of the high ranking disciples yet, the majority still had orders to kill you if it was discovered my death was a lie." Sherlock moved, copying John's position on the step, his face about a foot from John's.

"I remember taking Harry home, and when we stepped out of the pub, I saw a black car. For a second there I thought for some reason it might be Mycroft, it looked like his car." John thought hard, trying to pull memories up of that horrid evening. "It made me sad; I knew he'd never be bothered with something as trivial as his little brother's former flatmate's birthday. I took Harry home, then I went to…. I went to…."

Sherlock reached out his hand, capturing John's as they clasped together at the painful memory.

"You went to the cemetery, you went to my grave. You sat there beside it, until it started to rain." Sherlock squeezed his hands, and John uncurled them to twine his fingers with Sherlock's. "You sat with me for hours, John."

"But it wasn't really you."

"I was with you, John. I was less than a hundred feet away, one of Mycroft's men having a fit, convinced I was going to blow my cover, and let you see me." Sherlock tried to smile at him, but he couldn't pull it off. "Just being that close to you was as enjoyable as it was painful."

"Sherlock." It was all John could manage, his voice overcome by tears, ones he refused to shed. He just looked in Sherlock's eyes, and the joy he felt at having this man back in his life came singing out from his heart, chasing away the tears. He would never have to feel that sorrow again. Sherlock was home. John tugged, and pulled Sherlock closer. He leaned over their hands, and kissed his detective. Sherlock kissed him back, then pulled away a little.

"I only saw you for a few hours, but it was enough to give me the strength to keep going. You set me back on course, gave me back my focus. I had spiraled out of control, convinced the only way you would ever really be safe was if I was actually dead. That every breath I took was placing you in danger." Sherlock said it all so calmly, as if mentioning dying wasn't a big deal. He hinted at something far more final than a fake death, and John glared at him.

"Don't be an idiot." John growled at him, kissing him on the lips. "You're back, I'm fine, and we're together."

Sherlock kissed him back, hands raising to frame John's face. John scooted closer, and he grabbed at Sherlock's collar, holding him tight. The kiss promised to go deeper, but a shadow fell over them, and an impatient sigh broke them apart. They both turned and looked. Mycroft stood over them, hands in his pockets, with a very exasperated look on his face.

"Is that all you two are going to do today?" Mycroft asked, his tone making it clear he thought their behavior juvenile.

"In between doing your job, saving the Western World, and getting some lunch, absolutely." It wasn't Sherlock who made that reply, but John, and he leaned over to kiss his detective one more time. "C'mon, Sherlock, let's go find some food before I pass out."

John stood, and pulled Sherlock to his feet. John pulled Sherlock past his brother, and towards the door leading to the house. John completely ignored Mycroft, and John grinned when he heard Sherlock snickering as he followed behind his doctor. Anthea was standing at the door, waiting on them.

"I've had Cook make lunch, if you would like to eat here. The results from the scans should be complete within the hour, and we should have visual confirmation of the women's location at about the same time."

John turned to Sherlock, and he shrugged, not caring. He wasn't interested in eating, but he also wasn't willing to let John out of his sight either. John nodded to Anthea, and she opened the door, leading them out to the hallway.

* * *

><p>John sat on a very expensive couch in one of the many underused rooms in Mycroft's house, eating a salad, and perversely satisfied to have his feet up on the coffee table. Sherlock sat on the couch next to him, his coat and jacket hanging off an armchair nearby. Sherlock wasn't eating, hands under his chin, leaning back, and looking up at the ceiling. He had been there like that since Anthea had directed them to wait, she would have the food brought to them.<p>

"You know, I am very upset with Mycroft." John said, swallowing a mouthful of veggies. "Making me eat rabbit food, a nice ham sandwich would've been nice. We aren't all on his diet."

"Somehow, my dear doctor, I doubt it's the vegetation that has you upset with my brother." Sherlock mused quietly, rubbing his chin idly over his fingertips. "You would have beat him to a bloody pulp over an hour ago."

Sherlock didn't sound mad at all, just stating a fact. John cast him a glance, and put his salad down. He took a sip of filtered water, and then decided he might as well own up.

"I've been mad at your brother since the night you came back." John confessed, and sighed loudly. He felt slightly embarrassed.

"Why?"

"Because he talked you out of telling me the truth, sent you away on those missions, got you brutally beaten, and left you alone out there, with no one but strangers to help you as you chased down the most dangerous people on the planet." John felt the anger stir in his heart, and reined it in.

Sherlock had turned to him, and was watching his face. He frowned, and made to speak. John shook his head, and figured he might as well confess the lot of it.

"And …... All he had to do was make me disappear too, and I could have gone with you." John looked back at Sherlock, and smiled sheepishly. Sherlock's face was blank, and he blinked in surprise.

"You would have gone with me?" Sherlock asked, eyes intent on John's face.

"Without hesitation." John replied, and tried to let Sherlock see the truth. That he would follow Sherlock anywhere, to keep him safe. "Even before I knew that I was in love with you, I would have followed you to Hell and back."

Sherlock reached out, and took John's hand. He held it, and Sherlock looked like he was going to speak.

"Dr Watson, as sentimentally delightful as that thought may be, it would not have suited the best interests of the missions, this country, or my brother if you had gone with him." Mycroft stated from the doorway. "You would have been a fatal distraction, as you are steadily becoming one now."

John whipped his head around, to see Mycroft staring at him, and it was only Sherlock's hand on his that kept him from leaping up and bashing the insufferable man's skull in. John dragged in a deep breath, and refused to let his anger get away from him. It was as if Mycroft was attempting to spur him into doing something rash. There was a tiny twitch next to his eye, as if he couldn't quite hold back his disappointment at not getting a stronger response from John.

Sherlock looked at his brother, then back at John, and he appeared to see something too. The look he tossed his brother was glacial, any hint of warmer emotion leached from his eyes and face. Sherlock stood, and moved between his brother and John, coming within arm's reach of Mycroft.

"Brother Mine, be very careful how you proceed." His voice was a deep growl, and his posture screamed anger, cold anger.

Mycroft looked at his brother, and came to the conclusion that he may have gone too far. He smiled that tight, insincere smile of his, and nodded once.

"The surveillance teams are due to report any time now. Do make your way back down at your convenience." Mycroft didn't even look at John, he just turned and left. Sherlock stalked to the door, and watched as his brother walked down the hall and out of sight.

John stood, and joined his lover at the door. He looked at Sherlock, and reached out to touch his jaw, as he was tense with anger still. Sherlock flicked his eyes down to meet his, and the anger just melted away. Sherlock lifted his hand, and held John's to his face.

"I wonder if he realizes just how dreadfully obvious he's being." Sherlock said, stepping closer to John.

"I'd bet he either thinks I'm not aware he's trying to get us to break up, or he doesn't know that's what he's trying to do. Is he actually jealous, or does he really think that I'm going to get you killed?"

"Probably all of it, to some degree." Sherlock leaned down, and snatched a quick kiss. "For Mycroft, sentiment is a dangerous flaw. And he's not entirely wrong."

"Really?" John raised a brow, and with a look dared Sherlock to keep going.

"For Mycroft it's dangerous; for me, not so much." Sherlock grinned, and laughed as John rolled his eyes at him. "Nothing's too dangerous for me."

There came a chirping noise, oddly cheerful in the emotionless room. Sherlock perked up, and went to dig his mobile out of his pockets. He opened a text, he stood up straighter, and what he read made excitement crackle off him in almost tangible sparks.

"What is it?"

"Molly- she ran those tests I asked her to, before she did anything else." Sherlock looked at John, and he saw satisfaction and a crazy gleam sparkle in his eyes. "Moran was poisoned."

Sherlock all but ran from the room, John right behind him, both of them tearing down the long hall. Sherlock tagged his hand on the access panel, and he barely waited for the door to open before he was sneaking through. Mycroft was there already, and he turned as his brother walked to him.

"Moran was indeed poisoned. The toxin made him have a heart attack, a time-delayed mixture, with organic poisons. _Convallaria majalis _and a small amount of hydrogen cyanide, from _hydrangea paniculata._ There was a trace of red latex on his lips, as well. Sybil Moran killed him with her lip gloss." Sherlock delivered his news all in one rush, excitement at Molly's discovery validating his theory making him giddy.

"Excellent timing. We have news as well." Mycroft pointed to one of his aides, who swallowed loudly before speaking, as the detective was making him very nervous.

"Sir, we ran the facial recognition programs, and got mixed results." The aide pulled up Sybil Moran's portrait first, above them on the larger screen. Beside her portrait was a grey void, the words 'NO MATCH' flashing, as if teasing them. "We got no results on Lady Moran, sir. We pulled her records, as far back as her wedding certificate to Lord Moran just over two years ago. We… we… could find no trace of her prior to that. No passport, no visa, no student ID. She doesn't exist anywhere in the public record before her wedding date."

"What about agencies, government affiliations? She must have been trained by someone." Sherlock asked, glaring at the aide.

"We checked, sir. The program came up blank. Not even a classified file or deleted file; it's like she doesn't exist." The aide glanced around at the three men surrounding him, but his gaze stopped on John, and he paled. "And with reference to a classified file, we found something on the other woman, Mary Morstan."

John tensed, and moved closer. Hands curled into fists, John braced himself for hearing whatever came next. The aide clicked, and Mary's portrait replaced Sybil's. The one they had of her from the surveillance video, eyes all smokey, a dangerous smile on her lips, graced the left side of the screen. The aide then clicked again, and a new picture materialized next to it. It was still Mary; hair still bright blonde, but slightly longer, and her face was clear of makeup. It wasn't recent, and looked to be several years old. It had been taken at a distance, and zoomed in, making the image slightly hazy. Underneath the newer picture, two words were flashing in red: 'CLASSIFIED', and 'DECEASED'.

"The file was classified by the CIA, sir. We can't tell you her real name, where she's from, nothing. Her file is completely locked out, the only thing we could access was her date of death, almost six years ago now. We need clearance to see more." The aide stopped talking, his eyes locked on Mycroft. "We sent in the usual request under your authority, but it came back denied."

John was staring at the new picture of Mary, the confirmation of her lies clear for all to see. John felt a tumbled mix of anger, grief, and surprise. It was as if a part of him had been holding out hope that Mary wasn't all lies. That the woman he had come to love, the woman who had saved him from his grief, couldn't be this person, this foreign operative. John closed his eyes, and fought back the emotions threatening to take him over. He concentrated on breathing, and let everything go. He just let it all go. The anger, the sense of betrayal, the love, all of it. He let it all flow out of him, and John strived for peace.

_Air in, air out, let it go. It doesn't matter anymore. She doesn't matter anymore. Sherlock matters. Stopping the disciple matters. Living your life matters. Let it go._

John relaxed, as the emotions faded away. He knew Sherlock was at his shoulder, but the detective hadn't touched him, sensing that John was working things out. John smiled, and reached out his hand without looking. Strong, long fingers gripped his, holding tight. John squeezed, and opened his eyes. He lifted his eyes to Sherlock's, and smiled at his detective.

"I'm alright. What's next, then?" John asked, his voice even. Sherlock nodded, and skewered the aide with a piercing look.

"Where are they now?" Sherlock was all business, and the aide shrank back slightly in his seat. He cast a look to his boss, but he wasn't getting any support from Mycroft. He paled even more, and hands shaking, eyed all three of them before finally stammering out his answer.

"The Level 4 team observed the Moran townhouse, saw no signs of anyone being home, and decided to do a sneak and peek. When they went inside, they found…..nothing. The targets weren't there, sir. They swept the house, and found the personal smartphones of the staff, Lady Moran, and her bodyguards all left on the kitchen table. All were on, GPS enabled. Nothing personal appeared to be removed from the house, no clothes from closets, everything just left. Team Leader reported that it was as if the targets had needed nothing when they left."

Silence. The aide looked down at his hands, avoiding their eyes. He drew in another breath, and looked up at Sherlock.

"They found one thing, sir. On Lady Moran's mobile. There was a text, unsent. It was addressed to Sherlock Holmes."

"What did it say?" Mycroft asked, before Sherlock could strangle the aide for taking too long.

The aide clicked a button, and a smaller picture appeared, obviously taken on someone's smartphone. It was a close up picture of another mobile's screen, but the words were clear.

**The fires are coming, Sherlock. Protect your heart, if you can. –D**

* * *

><p>The three of them were in Mycroft's personal office, a stone room similar to the operations room, smaller, with a large portrait of the Queen behind his desk. John sat in a chair in front of Mycroft's desk, chin in his hand, thinking hard. Sherlock stood behind the desk, hovering at Mycroft's shoulder as his elder brother made a phone call.<p>

He had it on speaker, at Sherlock's insistence, and only after garnering promises from both men to remain silent did he relent. It rang out for over a minute, and John was expecting it to go to voicemail. Suddenly the line opened, and there was nothing at first. Just an open connection, a faint buzzing noise. John tilted his head, convinced he heard something. When the voice finally spoke, John barely stopped himself from jumping.

"This had better be important, Mycroft Holmes, or I will hop on the earliest flight to London and stomp your British ass." It was a woman's voice, with a very distinct American accent. John blinked in surprise, and struggled not to laugh.

"My apologies, dear. I need a consultation, please." Mycroft's voice had changed, no longer snarky or sarcastic, but polite, and he seemed to lean on his accent, polishing it up even more than it already was. John raised a brow in disbelief, and Sherlock covered his mouth with his hand, as if holding back a laugh.

"Isn't Sherlock your resident genius? I'm in California, my love, do you have _any idea_ what time it is here?" The woman on the line was clearly annoyed, and sounded like she was struggling to get up. "I was sleeping peacefully, dreaming about not helping out an emotionally stunted Brit with Mommy issues."

"Violet. I feel it pressing to mention I am not alone." Mycroft hurriedly spoke, apparently willing to let the American know he wasn't alone, to get her to stop berating him.

"Oh! Sherlock, is that you, sexy?" The woman named Violet cheerfully asked, her mood swiftly changing.

"Yes, Violet. Good morning." Sherlock replied, and his voice changed as well. Sherlock had charm when he wished to use it, and his words were positively dripping with it. "Always lovely to hear your voice."

"Is it true you _finally _hooked up with that dashing army doctor? The sexy blonde?" Violet asked, and there were sounds of her moving about a room in the background.

John bit his lip, and struggled very hard not to laugh. Whoever this woman was, she knew a lot, and from the other side of the hemisphere, too. Mycroft tossed up his hands, and leaned back in his chair, his face exasperated, and waved at Sherlock to just take over.

"Do you mean Dr Watson? And yes, I can confirm that I have 'hooked' up." Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes at John. John grinned, thoroughly enjoying this phone call.

"Well, that's wonderful! I was afraid your sex drive would evaporate like your brother's, glad to see that didn't happen. What can I do for you, at this utterly horrendous time of day?" There were sounds of her moving something, and she must have set the phone down, as they could hear the noises of a computer powering up in the background, the familiar beeps and whirring of fans ubiquitous across the globe.

"My brother sent you two pictures. We need access to any and all information you can get on the subjects." Sherlock said, all business now.

"Yeah, I see the email, one sec. Ohhh, the blonde is cute! The brunette, not so much, I like blondes….." They heard typing in the background, and she started humming. John leaned closer, wondering what the song was. She was singing under her breath now, and John was really curious as to what she was doing. Whatever it was, she was enjoying herself immensely. The song was familiar, but John couldn't tell what it was.

The singing stopped, and they heard what sounded like Violet swearing in the background. She must have picked the phone back up, because her voice was more immediate, and there was no mistaking the shock in it.

"What the hell are you guys doing over there? _Fuck me, what did you just send me?!"_ Violet was yelling now, and the mobile's speakers fizzled a little at the volume.

"Violet, dear. Please calm down." Mycroft spoke, hand reaching for the mobile on his desk, stopping just shy of it as the woman on the other end started cussing louder. John about lost his tenuous control on his laughter, as he watched Mycroft's face as the woman created on the spot some very original and interesting swear words. She kept at it for a moment longer, before she calmed down, and started breathing normally.

"Before I go and paint a target on my back, I want to know just how fucking important this is." Violet asked, and she was not messing around. Her voice had lost the flirty edge to it, and she sounded like she was seconds away from hanging up the phone. "Uncle Sam won't be happy if he catches me."

"This is very important, Violet. The brunette is Moriarty's last remaining disciple, and the blonde is someone we know, who's gotten pulled into this for some reason, we don't know how or why." Sherlock told her, and he tried to impart just how urgent this was into his voice.

"Shit. Sherlock, I thought you got them all. Seriously? The fashion plate is a disciple? Hhhmmm, she just got sexier. I need some assurances, please. Favors. If this is as important as you make it sound, then I want a major favor, _both of you._ A really big favor. Each. Oh, and Sherlock takes me dancing next time I'm in town. Man has got some moves in him! He can bring his boyfriend." Violet laid it all out, and she started to idly hum that song again.

John looked at Sherlock, and Sherlock actually appeared to be embarrassed. He wouldn't look at John, and John narrowed his eyes at his lover. Sherlock didn't have time to answer, as Mycroft replied quickly, obviously eager to get the conversation back on track.

"Yes, Violet. A big favor, from each of us." Mycroft said, one hand out to stop Sherlock from speaking.

"And the dancing." She said, stubbornly.

"Yes, I'll take you dancing!" Sherlock groused.

"Perfect! One sec, lemme start dodging Uncle Sam over here, stay sexy." She put the phone back down, and they heard her typing again. She started to hum again, and John was very curious about what it was. John looked at Sherlock, who had a very exasperated look on his face, like he couldn't believe he got trapped into taking a woman out dancing. John was finding this to be the best phone call he'd ever experienced, and he didn't want it to end.

"Oh, wow. Um. Wow." Violet said. "I found something on the blonde. Brunette is still processing."

"Go on, Violet." Mycroft said.

"I don't have her name, just her initials. A.G.R.A. Born in 1972, recruited by the CIA at the tender age of seventeen. She was part of their badly named _la femme fatale_ program a couple of decades ago. Top of her class out of the Farm, highest mission success rate for her age group, and she was also in the top of her class for kills rates. I've got my eyes on over three hundred confirmed actions, many of them multiples. Minimal collateral damage, she left civilians alone, and it seems she did most of her work solo. She was active for over fifteen years. Impressive, most don't make it past ten without the Agency tagging them with expiration dates." Violet dropped that information as if she were reading off the answers to a crossword puzzle, and she had more. "Damn near six years ago, she took out three high-ranking terrorists, about a dozen of their people, and supposedly blew herself up at the same time. Uncle Sam has her listed as dead."

Sherlock went to speak, but she interrupted them.

"Well, they did have her listed as dead. There's a tag on her file, a recent action. From a few days ago. Looks like someone let it slip that she was alive, told the CIA that their Golden Girl wasn't red mist, and they sent the dogs after her. Whoa! Looks like she took care of it though, three dead bad guys, and she got away! Oh look! It mentions you, Sherlock! What was that like, at the crime scene? I bet it was hot. I'll go cruising through MPS crime scene logs after I finish this. Never mind that, I've got more. Whoever she is for reals, they want her dead. And I don't think they'll be able to pull it off easy; everything I'm seeing here says she is one badass momma."

The three men had nothing to say, just sat there and tried to process the information this woman was pulling out of the ether. John was struggling, and he was glad he was sitting down.

"I just found out who informed Uncle Sam that she was still alive. Some creepy dude with the pretentious name of Charles Augustus Magnussen. Oh, this is priceless! He sold the blonde for information on Mycroft! Gratz dear, you just became currency! You guys outta know him, he lives on your side of the pond."

"Yes, we know the name." Sherlock practically growled it, and his face was a mask of disgust. John was pulled from his own thoughts by the look on Sherlock's face, and he knew that he was going to be asking about the media magnate for certain. Mycroft looked annoyed, but he didn't seem particularly upset that Magnussen was targeting him.

"I got something on the brunette." Violet said, and she said nothing else.

"Violet? Are you still there?" Mycroft asked.

"Um, yyeeaahhhh." Violet was quiet, and she wasn't humming anymore. "I found something in one of the blonde's mission files, eight years ago. There's one mention of her providing backup, to another female operative. Younger woman, early twenties at the time. There's no picture, no name. Just a generalized description, but it kinda matches the brunette. And if she's a disciple of the late and great Moriarty, this makes sense."

"What? Just say it, Violet." Sherlock snapped, his patience almost gone.

"The note on her is short. She's a ghost, a freelance operative. Nothing substantial at all, just this one mention. She was hired to take out a politician in Europe, and did that, but she took everyone, and I mean everyone, within a quarter mile of the target out with him. Two dozen dead in less than thirty minutes; whole family, staff, guards, everyone dead. It was covered up as a gas leak explosion at a private resort. Oh, wow. Got something. I found a name, sorta."

"What?" Mycroft bit out, highly impatient now.

"This is sooo hot! She's my fav now. Super sexy." Violet said, and she started humming again. "There's a line in the cleanup report done by an Agency sweeper team, after the 'incident' at the resort. This is so hot! They nicknamed the female operative 'Death'."

"Death? As a name? Seriously?" John couldn't help himself.

"Gasp! Who is that? Is that the boyfriend?" Violet got even more excited, and Mycroft sighed loudly. Sherlock waved a hand at John, as if to say it didn't matter anymore.

"Um, yeah sorry. Hi." John said, suddenly uncomfortable, realizing he'd been sitting there the whole time, listening to this highly entertaining woman do all their hard work for them. "Thank you for helping us out with this, I appreciate it."

"You sound as delicious as your pictures, sexy. You are most welcome. See, boys? Sometimes a girl just needs some consideration. Recognition, even." Violet was typing away again, and she was humming that song. John stifled the urge to ask, and just smiled at the mobile.

"Um, thanks?" John said, lost as how to proceed.

"Anything else boys? Before I sacrifice my hard drive and skip town?" Violet asked, between humming her song and typing.

"Anything else you can tell us about them? Does anyone out there know where they are?" Mycroft asked, face intent.

"Nope. Off the grid. Only activity I see is mine, yours from the last few hours, and the CIA from a few days back. I'm going to delete my foot prints, do you want me to delete yours as well?" Violet was typing up a storm, the clacking of keys loud over the line.

"No, shouldn't need to…" Mycroft was cut off by Sherlock, who talked over him.

"Violet, can you go back at any time, access this information?" Sherlock said, the question hanging in the air.

"Yup. As long as I have a secure line, anytime. Why?" She asked, still typing.

"I may need to get back in there in the future. As for now, just delete your access, Langley already knows we submitted a request." Sherlock said.

"Perfect! I'll be cashing in those favors soon, boys. Kiss the hottie boyfriend for me, Sherlock. Don't forget, dancing! Lots of dancing. Goodbye Mycroft, find a better sense of timing please. And John, sweetness, you lucky bastard, enjoy the catch of the century! Bye!" There was click, then the tone of a dropped line. She was gone.

"So, who wants to tell me who Violet is, and why she wants to go dancing with Sherlock?" John asked, alternately torn between laughing at the look on Mycroft's face, and the endearingly offbeat American and her miraculous information.

* * *

><p>The evening sun was warm, filtered by the heavily tinted windows on the Jaguar. The powerful car cut through traffic like a dream, and they were making good time back to Baker Street. Sherlock sat beside John, who was leaning with his head on Sherlock's shoulder. John looked tired, and Sherlock knew that no matter how stoically John tried to handle the day's revelations about Mary, it couldn't have been easy. John had waved off any concern, and merely nodded when Sherlock suggested they go home after spending hours looking through the CCTV footage of London, searching for any sign of the two women. They had found nothing.<p>

Sherlock was frustrated, and he didn't bother trying to hide it from anyone. Mycroft had lost patience, claiming he had other work to do, and leaving them alone in the underground bunker. Anthea had walked up to them, and told them the car would be ready for them in a few minutes if they wanted to leave. Sherlock had told her thank you, and John had silently joined him at the door to leave.

Sherlock caught a glimpse of a tail car in the rearview mirror, and he knew Mycroft had them under surveillance again. No matter how upset he might be over Sherlock being in a relationship with John, he wasn't going to take the chance on anything happening to either of them. There was another man in their car too, aside from the dour driver Mycroft usually used. He was armed, and had gotten in the front as Sherlock and John had piled in the back. Sherlock saw signs of a nine mil in a shoulder holster, and a snub nosed revolver strapped to his ankle. Mycroft wasn't messing around.

_Death. What a strange name for a woman, even if she is an assassin. And one so successful, she has been invisible for the last decade. She has sacrificed her cover as Lady Moran, shed that identity completely. She has no intention of returning to it. She means for this to be her last mission. She will come for John. He is my heart. All that I feel comes from him._

At that thought Sherlock rested his head on John's, and the doctor's steady breathing let him know John had fallen asleep. The warmth from John was soothing, reassuring. Sherlock was finding himself becoming steadily dependent on that warmth, missing it when John wasn't touching him. Sherlock understood to some degree Mycroft's concern with this relationship, he truly did. Mycroft feared that Sherlock would become so reliant on John Watson that if the day came he didn't have him anymore, Sherlock would cease to be himself. And Sherlock knew he was right. And he didn't care. It was too late to pull back, to sever this bond.

The car rolled to an easy stop outside 221B, and Sherlock gently nudged John awake. John stirred, and seeing where they were at, sluggishly sat up and stretched.

"Sorry, Sherl', didn't mean to fall asleep on you." John mumbled, yawning.

Sherlock said nothing, just opened the door and held it as his doctor stumbled out sleepily. John was exhausted again, the emotional toll of the day wearing him down. Sherlock shut the door, and took John's arm in a firm grip. Sherlock eyed the street both ways as he walked with John to their front door. Everything appeared to be normal, including the surveillance car parked at the corner. Letting them in, Sherlock didn't relax until he shut and locked the door behind them.

John went straight to his chair, barely taking the time to pull off his jacket, and removing the gun from his back. John had the presence of mind to put it carefully on the table next to his chair before passing out, fast asleep. Tiny slips of noise that sounded suspiciously like snores came swiftly from the red armchair. Sherlock smiled, and picked up the weapon. It was the same dependable gun John had carried through his military service, and the years since. Sherlock pulled it from its holster, and tucked the gun into the waistband of his slacks, under his jacket. John would be in no condition to use it if someone came for them at the flat, and Sherlock had no issue with killing someone if they were so foolish as to attempt an attack.

Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson moving about downstairs, and knew she would be up soon. Sherlock prowled around the flat, looking for anything out of place, anything disturbed. Just the usual, Mrs. Hudson cleaning up as she snooped about, but nothing suspicious. No one had been in here who shouldn't have been.

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson whispered loudly from the front room. She was standing at the door, and in her attempt to avoid waking John she was actually making more noise.

"I'm here. Don't worry, John's fast asleep, I could play Bach in his ear and I wouldn't wake him." Sherlock said, not lowering his voice as he came back out into the front room. "Anything eventful happen while we were out?"

"No, just a couple reporters nosing about after you two left, but since you were gone for so long they gave up." Mrs. Hudson said, walking into the kitchen, heading for the tea-pot. "Has Mycroft put his people back on you then? I saw that car was back, same spot it used to be back in the day."

"Yes he has." Sherlock said, sitting at the still clean table, and he eyed it with displeasure, certain he could find something with which to return it to its naturally messy state.

_Maybe I can get Moran's blood results, narrow down the toxins Death used to kill him. Could be useful to have someday. So much to catch up on! Molly could bring them over I suppose, but John is sleeping. Sleeping! So boring._

Sherlock wanted to bang his head on the table, feeling his brain start to circle, spiral out into little tangents of thoughts and ideas. Having no leads on the whereabouts of Mary and Death, Sherlock needed something to do. He'd already checked his Inbox and his email, but there was nothing in there worth leaving the flat for, not that he'd feel comfortable leaving John alone anyway. So no cases requiring him to leave, not without John.

Sherlock felt himself getting bored, and his fingers were drumming away at the table, and he shifted in his seat.

"Don't start with your fidgeting now, Sherlock! You start that, next thing I know I've got holes in my wall and bloodstains on my carpets! Drink your tea and restrain yourself." Mrs. Hudson warned him, and a cup of tea appeared next to his hand. Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, but picked up the tea and took a sip.

"Can't stand being bored." Sherlock muttered, sipping his tea and ignoring Mrs. Hudson's glares as she started puttering about his kitchen. He guessed she was making something to eat, but he wasn't interested and zoned her out. "What am I supposed to do while John is sleeping? He gets so cranky when he's woken from a nap."

Sherlock saw it first, and he stilled, the tea-cup hovering just above its saucer. Mrs. Hudson turned, and saw Sherlock making a fine impression of a statue. He was staring at the table, at the far end. She moved her head and looked, but saw nothing. There was a faint glimmer of something, a slight movement, but Mrs. Hudson couldn't make it out.

Sherlock could see it, and held very still as the red laser dot from a sniper rifle slowly, and deliberately, moved down the length of the table. It moved with purpose, and once it became clear that Sherlock had seen it, whoever was holding the rifle moved it down the table top. His eyes tracked it back to the window, and the sun had set well enough by now he could see where the laser came through the window. Whoever it was, they were in the building across the street. And they weren't alone. Sherlock's heart contracted in fear; there was second dot, the laser cutting through the window, and it was aiming right at John. That one wasn't moving, and the other was closing in on Sherlock. Sherlock couldn't move, the second sniper had John dead to rights, and he knew that if he moved, they would fire. He just knew it, like he knew how to breathe, how to walk.

Mrs. Hudson gasped; the red dot had gotten close enough for her to see it. She looked at Sherlock, and started to reach for him.

"Don't! Don't move. Stay exactly where you are." Sherlock warned her, and he fought the urge to dive away. The dot danced across his teacup, and the bright red light caught him directly over his heart. There it sat, seeming to pulse in time with his rapidly beating heart. Sherlock tensed, waiting for the shot. Waited, as Mrs. Hudson sniffled against the counter, hands at her mouth, stifling her sobs.

Eternity passed, and the red dot held Sherlock immobile. Sherlock didn't care about himself; John was asleep, and had no clue the danger he was in. If he should suddenly wake up, move, anything, they might fire. _Stay asleep, stay asleep! _Sherlock felt his muscles starting to cramp, as the snipers made their position of power very clear. Anger and fear were boiling up in him, but he was trapped, and he knew if he made any move, John was dead.

They held Sherlock prisoner for what felt like forever. He knew it was only for a few minutes, but to him, it felt like hours. Sweat was running down his face, and he couldn't feel his fingers anymore, where he gripped the tea-cup.

Sherlock knew if this kept up any longer, either he or Mrs. Hudson would move, and the snipers would fire. He knew what this was. It was pure, simple, and straight forward threat. Total intimidation. _See how we can get to you. Anywhere. We own you. You will die when we want you to._ He could almost hear the voice behind the threat, so clearly did he receive the message.

Sherlock almost collapsed as the lights pulsed, then as suddenly as they appeared, they were gone. The cup hit the tabletop, and rolled onto its side, tea everywhere. Mrs. Hudson began to cry loudly, and Sherlock put both hands on the table and all but shoved himself away from it, to the far wall.

"JOHN! Wake up!" Sherlock yelled, as he pulled the gun from his waistband, and he ran towards the window, safety off and the gun pointed across the street. He kept his body between John and the line of fire they would have to use to shoot his doctor.

John sat up, confused and not able to think straight. He saw Sherlock with his gun drawn, and woke up fast, responding to the unseen threat, not knowing what was going on. Sherlock carefully looked out the window, but saw nothing, no sign that anyone was watching from the building across the street. He looked down and saw the surveillance car, exactly where it usually sat. He pulled back from the window, and went straight to John, grabbing his lover by the arm and dragging him out of the chair, and behind him. Sherlock kept the gun up, and pushed John, protesting the whole way, all the way back into the kitchen and behind the wall.

"Sherlock! What the hell is going on?" John asked, and he struggled against the hold Sherlock had on him, as his detective kept him shoved up against the wall. Sherlock breathed deep, all but panting in relief and fear. He lowered the gun, and turned to John, pulling him against his chest.

"Oh God, John." Sherlock whispered, shaking. "I love you."


	24. Doctor Watson

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me. Please enjoy, some lovely John moments here.**

**Read, enjoy, review!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty Four<strong>

"_**Doctor Watson"**_

Lestrade was at a loss. He stood outside the bedroom door, listening to John trying to calm Sherlock down. The detective was in a manic state, all control lost under what Lestrade could only assume was panic. Fear. Something shattered in the bedroom, and Lestrade flinched. Most likely anger too.

Mrs. Hudson had called him, a first. She had been tearful, scared, babbling about snipers, and John being threatened. Something about Sherlock not being well. Lestrade had flown out of the nightly debrief, ignoring Donovan as she called after him. Lestrade arrived at Baker Street within twenty minutes, and he knew Sherlock would never forgive him, but he had called Mycroft en route. The elder Holmes had listened quietly, and then told him to stay at Baker Street until reinforcements arrived. Lestrade knew the MI6 man didn't mean more police either.

"No John! They had you pinned to that chair! I could only watch! I sat and watched as they threatened you! I could do nothing! Me. I could do nothing to stop them!" Sherlock shouted, rage and fear ravaging his voice, making him sound inhuman.

Lestrade reached for the door handle, but hesitated. He knew John was fine, and that Sherlock would react badly to him interrupting. Lestrade couldn't make out John's reply, just the murmur of the doctor's voice, calming. Lestrade backed away from the door, heading back out to the front room. Mrs. Hudson sat on the couch, sniffling.

"You alright?" Lestrade asked, sitting next to the old woman, hand rubbing soothing circles on her shoulder.

"I think so. I didn't understand what was happening at first. Sherlock…" Mrs. Hudson wiped at her cheeks, and sat up straighter. "My boy knew right away what was happening, he told me to hold still."

"I'm sure that was the best thing to do. Mycroft's men are clearing the buildings around Baker Street. I don't think they stuck around anyways." Lestrade said, checking his mobile for any texts from the surveillance team. Mycroft had texted him, told him his people were sweeping the area, and to stay inside until they told him it was clear. Nothing as of yet.

"I don't understand any of this." Mrs. Hudson sat up straight, wiping her hands on her thighs. She looked at Lestrade, and he caught a glimmer of steel in the fragile woman next to him. "Are my boys in trouble?"

Lestrade fought back the impulse to smile, knowing she wouldn't appreciate his thoughts on how charming she was when trying to be brave.

"Looks like it. But you know those two; they can handle it." Lestrade told her, ignoring the fact that Sherlock was having a minor meltdown, and God knows how John was handling things.

His mobile chirped, vibrating in his pocket. Lestrade pulled it out quickly, checking to see if he had any news yet. It was from the surveillance team; their backup had arrived, and the surrounding area was clear. No signs of snipers, or unusual activity. Mycroft had ordered them to stay on guard, within a one block radius.

Lestrade sighed in relief, and leaned back on the couch. "It's ok, the sweeper teams cleared the area." He squeezed her shoulder once more, and she patted his hand in thanks. He struggled up from the comfy seat, and dreaded walking back down that hallway. He heard another crash from down the hall, and decided he better brave knocking.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was shaking, nerves on fire. He stood over the shattered remains of a specimen case, glass littering the floor, shards shining in the light from the lamps. John cussed under his breath, and moved to Sherlock's side, grabbing his hand. Sherlock swallowed back his chaotic emotions, struggling for control. He had lost it once the snipers had withdrawn; Sherlock barely remembered yelling at Mrs. Hudson to stay away from the windows, to call Lestrade. Sherlock had seized John's arm in a vise like grip and dragged him into the dubious security of the bedroom and locked the door. John had barely managed to get half of the story out before Sherlock dissolved in to a fit.<p>

John was safe, alive. Only because they had spared him. Sherlock had been helpless, rendered useless by fear. He knew logically that he had done the only thing he could, that any action of his part would have resulted in John's death. That was the whole point; proving to Sherlock that he wasn't the one in control. They were. Death and Mary.

Sherlock paid no attention to the glass shard imbedded in his knuckle, nor to the pain and blood. John was swearing at him, but his hands were gentle as he tugged Sherlock around, and made him sit on the bed. John examined his hand, and he flinched when he saw the glass piece buried in his lover's hand.

"You need stitches, some antibiotics. I'll need my bag. Stay here." John told him, turning for the door. Sherlock reached out for his arm, afraid to let John leave. "Sherlock, love, I'll be fine, my bag's in the front room."

"No." Just one word was all he could manage, and his skin felt cold, sweat chilling him all over his body. His grip smeared blood over John's forearm, and Sherlock didn't notice. John looked down at his lover, and whatever he saw in Sherlock's face made him pale, his eyes widen. John was torn. Sherlock needed medical attention, but John knew he couldn't leave the room without Sherlock losing it further.

Sherlock barely registered the soft knock at the bedroom door. He saw only John, refusing to take his eyes off his doctor. John tore his eyes away, and looked to the door.

"Who is it?" He asked softly, being careful not to be too loud. Sherlock was on the edge.

"It's Greg, the area's clear. You two okay in there?" Lestrade asked through the door, his voice nervous.

"Um, yeah. One sec." John looked down at Sherlock's hand, blood still dripping in a steady beat onto his arm, to the floor. There was growing puddle of it under his arm, and several large stains on Sherlock's leg, the bed. John stepped away, just one step, letting Sherlock keep his grip and he reached out, and unlocked the door. He popped it open, and he saw Lestrade through the gap, a concerned look on his face.

"We had a minor accident; can you get my medical bag from the front room? It's on the desk." John asked quietly, staying calm, doing everything slow. Lestrade's eyes darted past John to Sherlock, and the blood. His eyes widened in shock, and he nodded once before disappearing.

Sherlock was cold, and he was having trouble focusing. His thoughts had stilled, his mind fuzzy, and he kept his eyes on John. He knew that if he didn't John would disappear. A part of him dimly recognized he was going into shock, but he didn't care. The warmth of his lover's skin under his hand was the only thing he needed. John, with one arm, slowly worked Sherlock out of his suit jacket, and the only time Sherlock let go off John's arm was when John pried his fingers off one at a time, pulling the jacket away as he did it. He gripped John's arm as soon as John tossed the jacket to the side, forgotten before it hit the floor.

Lestrade was back in a flash, stepping into the room as John waved him in. Lestrade swore under his breath at the sight of Sherlock's hand, the glass protruding from his knuckle. It was easily over an inch long, nestled between the joints of Sherlock's hand. Blood welled out around the glass, dripping to the floor.

"Christ! You gonna take care of that here?" Lestrade asked, as John opened the bag, digging through it one-handed. John pulled out his forceps, clamps, needles, and the medical thread for stitches. He pulled open the tiny pocket hidden on the inside, saw he still had some morphine, and antibiotics buried in gauze wrapping. Sherlock wasn't even paying attention; he just kept his gaze on John.

"Yeah, no choice. Don't think I could get him to cooperate with an ambulance, he isn't stable." John told Lestrade, and he knew Sherlock was in a bad way as the detective didn't even react to what he said. Nothing. It wasn't the blood loss, Sherlock was bleeding badly, but he was still well under a pint in what had bled out already. It was his mental state that worried the doctor. John had a hunch that if he went to leave the room, Sherlock would react very badly. "I'm going to need your help."

"Sure. Tell me what to do."

"Have Mrs. Hudson get some towels, hot water, then come right back here."

Lestrade left, and John heard him talking to Mrs. Hudson. She sounded upset, but John couldn't worry about her now. John moved quickly, grabbing Sherlock's free hand, and making his detective grip his belt, tucked his fingers into his waistband. Sherlock instinctively gripped tightly onto John's belt, fingers clutching. John moved in close, standing between Sherlock's knees, and as soon as he did, Sherlock relaxed, his forehead lowering to rest on John's stomach. He sighed, and almost went completely limp. John had been expecting that, and braced his detective against him. John was able to hold Sherlock up, and use both hands again. He quickly pulled on some gloves, and went to work.

John stepped into doctor mode seamlessly, evaluating and inspecting the injury. The glass shard was exactly centered between the largest knuckle and the one to the outside of it. He gently felt around it, down the length, and determined that it hadn't severed anything. Blood gushed out every time he did that, and Sherlock made no reaction. His detective huddled against his stomach and hips, his curls obscuring his face. John worried there might be fragments, but he wouldn't be able to determine if the piece was intact until he pulled it out.

Lestrade came back, and he had the hot water and towels.

"Wet those down, and hand me one. I need to wash this blood away so I can see it clearer." John instructed, and Lestrade hurriedly did as he asked. John used the warm damp towel and gently wiped away at the blood, closely examining the wound. "Pull on a pair of gloves, and come around to his other side, hold his arm up for me."

John needed to be able to use both hands for pulling out the shard, and he couldn't do that and hold up the arm too. Lestrade quickly pulled on a pair of bright blue gloves, and carefully sat next to Sherlock. Lestrade looked slightly uncomfortable, eyeing Sherlock as if the detective might bite him for getting so close. John laughed quietly, and shot Lestrade an amused look.

"Don't worry Greg, he doesn't bite that hard." John said, and chuckled when Lestrade looked confused before his face got red in understanding. Lestrade firmly grasped Sherlock's arm, and held it up. John was able to let go, and cleaned the wound off as best he could. The blood flow had slowed, just seeping now.

"He didn't hit an artery, thankfully. I should be able to stitch him up just fine here. You got him? He might jerk away when I start."

"Um, sure. Go ahead." Lestrade didn't sound so sure, but John took him at his word, and using the forceps, took hold of the end sticking out of the flesh and swiftly pulled it out. There was no resistance, which there would have been if it had broken apart in Sherlock's hand. John dropped the shard in the hot water bowl, and wiped away at the fresh blood. He used the forceps to gently examine the wound, and he felt no contact on any smaller shards that may have been left behind when he pulled out the larger piece. Sherlock hadn't reacted at all, not even a twitch when John pulled it out. John didn't know if that should worry him or not, but he decided it didn't matter, Sherlock wasn't fighting him.

Mrs. Hudson had come in, and she was quietly sweeping up the glass from the destroyed case. John ignored her, concentrating on Sherlock. She gasped in dismay at the blood on the floor, and said something about mopping. John just hoped she'd wait until he was done.

"No fragments, nothing severed, fucking lucky, Sherlock." John knew Sherlock couldn't hear him; John was certain Sherlock was out. His pulse was steady though, John wasn't worried. John broke the seal on a sterile suture set, and he swiftly threaded one of the needles, the curved, sharp steel glinting wickedly under the light. John stitched up the injury, smirking when Lestrade had to look away, face almost as pale as Sherlock's.

"Almost done, no passing out. Two incoherent men in my bedroom would be too much." John said, and Lestrade made a face at him. The stitching was easy; John had fixed up far worse, in far nastier conditions. _No bombs going off, no dust everywhere, fingers aren't numb from the cold, and no one is shooting at me! Well, maybe not quite true on that last one._

"He's out, Greg. Tell me what happened, I didn't get much from him before he snapped." John asked as he continued to stitch the gash back together.

"Someone aimed two laser sighted sniper rifles through the window at you while you were sleeping, and at Sherlock while he was at the table. Only for a few minutes, but it was enough to make Sherlock go, well, like this." Lestrade said. Sherlock was still out, his face firmly planted in John's stomach. The fingers of his uninjured hand were still tucked under John's belt, arm limp.

"It was dreadful! Horrible! Sherlock couldn't pull his eyes off you the whole time!" Mrs. Hudson started to sniffle again, and she left the room to compose herself.

"Sounds pretty dreadful, glad I was asleep." John mused, examining his last stitch. Proud of his work, and very thankful Sherlock had cooperated, John wiped away the last of the blood, and patted the skin dry. "I'll wrap this up, give him some morphine to keep him down, some antibiotics, and he'll be fine. Well, until he punches something else, at least."

John wrapped Sherlock's hand in bandages, careful not to overdo it as Sherlock would get annoyed by it faster and rip it off. "Hold his arm for me, keep it up, we don't want it to start bleeding through the stitches." Lestrade gingerly held up Sherlock's arm, and John was touched by the care the inspector was using. John pulled off his gloves, and wiped his hands, not caring about the blood drying all over his arm, his clothing.

"Sherlock? You still passed out?" John gently ran his hands through Sherlock's curls, massaging his temples. No response. "Ok he's still out, hold him up while I get the meds ready."

Lestrade wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist, and held him up while John slowly freed himself. Sherlock was limp, and John was starting to get worried, just a bit. If he had passed out normally, he should've been coming around by now, surely. John opened two sterile syringes, and knowing Sherlock's dosage by heart, filled the appropriate amounts. John sighed, and realized with Sherlock out like he was, and his shirts being tailored so exactly to his lean frame, he wouldn't be able to roll his sleeves up high enough.

"He is not going to be happy." John groaned as he got out his shears, and without hesitation, cut away at the fine white shirt. Lestrade looked amused, and John snickered softly as he gleefully stripped Sherlock down to his waist. Smooth, pale, nearly translucent skin covered lean, firm muscles, and John had to be careful he didn't get distracted. Sherlock was a gorgeous sight, even unconscious and bloody. He sterilized a spot on Sherlock's upper arm, and jabbed him quickly with the syringes. John cocked a brow at Lestrade, the inspector was nearly green, and looking away once he saw what John was doing.

"Thank you for your help, Greg. This would have been a lot harder without you." John said, putting the used syringes back in their packages, knowing he would have to dispose of them before Sherlock came back around. Can't be too careful with a recovering addict. "The morphine will keep him down while I clean up, set the room back to rights."

"Not a problem, John. Glad I could do something. I should probably check on the security detail outside." Lestrade gently lowered Sherlock to the bed, the detective unresponsive, still unconscious. Lestrade cast one last concerned look at Sherlock before quietly leaving.

John quickly cleaned up, packing his gear away. He grabbed the syringes, and ran downstairs, through Mrs. Hudson's flat, and outside to the trash bins. John looked up and down the alley, up at the roof, and saw nothing. He bent the needles against the metal bins, rendering them useless, before tossing them in the bins and dashing back inside. He wasn't going to tell Sherlock he went outside, no point in provoking his patient. He ran back upstairs, and went straight for the bedroom.

Sherlock was still out, and the morphine would have taken hold by now. John knew he hadn't needed to use it; the pain would have been manageable for Sherlock. He used it to keep Sherlock asleep, calm. Sherlock had snapped, had a minor breakdown. The pain relief was just a bonus. He knew it was dangerous, Sherlock used to be addicted to opiates. John hoped that he hadn't made a mistake.

John moved over as Mrs. Hudson came in, a damp mop in hand. She swiped it over the floor, scrubbing at the dried blood.

"John dear, get him covered up, he'll catch cold." She told him, using her best Mum-voice on him. John smiled, and tugged Sherlock until he was lined up on the bed correctly. He folded a blanket over his lover, and he would wait until Mrs. Hudson was gone before he stripped Sherlock down. She was determined to get the floor clean, and John decided to take a shower while she attacked the floor.

John took a quick shower, unwilling to leave Sherlock's side for too long. He changed into clean clothes before leaving the bathroom, glad he had, as they had another visitor. Lestrade was back, and talking quietly to Mycroft, both of them standing in the front room. John had known since Baskerville that Mycroft knew Lestrade, but he had never seen them together. John stood at the bathroom door, and just watched. Neither of them had seen him yet, and Lestrade was standing very close to Mycroft's shoulder, their heads bent, speaking low to each other. Mycroft was listening carefully, and nodding occasionally to whatever Lestrade was telling him. It was the look on Mycroft's face that made John break out into a huge smile. The elder Holmes actually looked human, face unguarded, attitude gone. Mycroft was paying attention to Lestrade with an intensity John had yet to see him use for anyone other than Sherlock. Lestrade shifted on his feet, somehow inching closer to Mycroft. John bit his lip, and backed slowly away, towards the open bedroom door, hoping to make it through without spoiling the unexpected moment he was witnessing.

_Whoa. This is surreal. Are they… what the hell are they? Not judging, no judging! Crap, Mycroft just saw me! _John nodded at Mycroft, just as he crossed the bedroom threshold. The elder Holmes stood up straight, face shuttering away, and he was instantly the Iceman again. Lestrade turned, and saw John, somehow making the fact he stepped a few feet away from Mycroft look very natural. John just held up a hand, and looked into the bedroom. Sherlock was still asleep, and his hand hadn't started to bleed again. John stepped out of the room, and closed the door behind him.

He walked out to join them, pretending he hadn't seen a thing.

"Mycroft, wasn't expecting you." John said, looking at Sherlock's brother, wondering why he was there.

"Well, yes, I wasn't expecting snipers to send my brother into a tailspin." Mycroft's attitude was back, and John fought hard not to react. Mycroft was an ass, but that didn't mean he had to be one too. "Is he still unconscious?"

"He'll be fine. Are we safe here?" John asked, refusing to discuss Sherlock's current state.

"My men cleared the area. We found where they were, the next floor up across the street. We closed off access to that spot, the building has been restricted, and we have teams around all streets accessing Baker Street keeping watch. They will not get through again." Mycroft said, with an attitude that clearly said this was somehow, in some way John's fault.

John had an epiphany of sorts, in that moment. Mycroft had spent the entirety of his life trying to control and, in some ways, protect Sherlock. Almost as soon as Sherlock came back from the dead, Sherlock had cast off what little influence Mycroft had, and attached himself firmly to John, in a way he never had with anyone, ever. Mycroft was scared. Jealous and scared, and the bugger had the audacity to be in denial about it. He most likely believed that this was all avoidable if Sherlock hadn't gotten involved with John. For a natural-born genius, Mycroft was a complete idiot.

John ignored Mycroft, like he would a patient who was complaining about some minor ache when the guy next to him was bleeding out. Sherlock was his to care for now. Forever.

"Then I guess we'll be staying here, I'll see what Sherl' wants to do in the morning. Thank you both, I seriously appreciate it. Greg, you were invaluable, thank you. Mycroft, I'm sure I'll be seeing you soon." John nodded to both men, politely indicating they should go. Lestrade got the hint, clapping John on the shoulder as he went for the door. Mycroft just gave John a disbelieving look, like he couldn't believe he was being dismissed at all.

John just gave him a sedate smile, hands tucked into his pockets, and waited. Mycroft tried staring him down, but John had lived with Sherlock for years, and the elder Holmes had nothing on the younger. His smile got bigger as Mycroft caved, and with a small nod, he followed the Inspector out of the flat.

John sighed in relief, and went to the kitchen. He was starving, and Sherlock would be out for a long while. Fully expecting a severed head, or some thumbs, John pulled open the door, and to his everlasting relief, saw no immediate signs of human body parts. He did see the ham sandwiches, and blessing Mrs. Hudson impulse to be a mother hen, dived on them.


	25. The Things We Do For Love

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**WARNING: SEX. And Violence.**

**Read on, enjoy, and review!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty Five<strong>

"_**The Things We do For Love"**_

Something was wrong. The world felt different. His city was gone, the terrain foreign, alien. There was a weight, a pressure, heat and pain. He could not find the path, the road beneath his feet hidden under a white blanket of nothingness. This wasn't right, and he fought back, striking at the fog surrounding him. It came for him, threatening to pull him under again, fingers of white, snakelike tendrils grasping, tearing away at his thoughts. He struggled, anger rising up in him, shouting his defiance. The fog retreated, light shining through, bright cracks in the ceiling of the sunless sky.

Sherlock breathed in deep, the air chasing away the fog, and he clenched his fists, pushing against the weight that pressed down on him. Pain shot through him, and he screamed, determined to win.

"Sherlock! You're okay! Wake up!" That sound, it was a beacon, familiar and vital. He needed it, and he fought harder, reaching for the light.

_I know that voice… who….. NO! John!_

Sherlock woke so quickly the sunlight seared his eyes, the world spinning as it centered itself, and his head hurt as he fought back against the strangle-hold the drugs had on him. John was holding him down, both of them in bed, John's hands firmly planted on his shoulders, as Sherlock strained against him.

"John?" Sherlock gasped, and he dropped his arms, his hands falling to the pillow. One of his hands hurt, and he turned to look, and saw his hand wrapped up, a white bandage swiftly being stained red with blood. "John?"

"It's ok, I swear you're ok. Just breathe, love. Take it easy, relax." John eased up his hold, sitting back slightly, rubbing his hands soothingly on Sherlock's chest. "I'll tell you everything, just relax."

John kept rubbing him, as Sherlock panted, eyes slightly wild, as he searched the room, picking up details from the night before out of pure habit, and recognizing the telltale hangover like symptoms he was experiencing. He was accustomed to the side effects of the drug, and he adapted swiftly. He hadn't used it for a long time, but his body remembered. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his doctor, and John swallowed nervously at the look Sherlock was giving him.

"Did you dose me with morphine last night?" Sherlock demanded.

"Yes." John said, determined not to cave under the glinting fire in his detective's eyes.

Sherlock eyed John, and saw the fear, exhaustion, the worry written in the lines around John's eyes. His hands were still touching him, gentle slides across his chest and stomach. Whatever had happened last night after the snipers freed them had left its mark on the doctor. Sherlock felt a gnawing worry spiral up from his gut, and he felt the blood drain from his face in apprehension.

"Did I hurt you?" Sherlock asked, afraid to hear the answer.

"No! God no, why would you think so?" John said, lifting a hand to push back a wayward curl from Sherlock's eyes. His finger felt amazing on Sherlock's skin, and he leaned into the touch.

Sherlock cast a look at his bloody hand, and then back to John. Something had happened last night, something bad enough that John had felt it important to dose a recovering addict with his personal poison of choice. Sherlock knew he hadn't taken the drugs the night before; the flat was clean, totally. He hadn't gotten anything new since his return, and it had been empty before the Fall.

"Oh, Christ. You don't remember last night do you?" John asked, and he rubbed at his face, looking frustrated. Sherlock shook his head, and got even more confused when John flung himself back down on the bed, snuggling up to his shoulder, being careful not to jolt his hurt hand.

"The snipers freaked you out, you had a small mental break of some kind, dragged me in here, screamed and shouted about feeling helpless, then smashed that specimen case, twice, and the last time you stabbed your hand, which I then fixed up with some help from Lestrade." John stated it all so calmly, as if things like that happened every day. "Oh, and Lestrade and Mycroft came over. I said hi, they secured the flat and apparently the whole of Westminster, and Mrs. Hudson made sandwiches. And yes, I gave you morphine, to keep you under. You passed out once I started fixing your hand."

"Oh." Sherlock let the warmth and touch of a very naked doctor relax him, dropping an arm around John, pulling him closer. Sherlock went over everything John said, and he was annoyed that he didn't remember any of it, nothing after shutting the door to the bedroom. "You sure I didn't hurt you?"

"You didn't hurt me at all. All you did was hurt yourself, and we can finally say goodbye to that disgusting spider display that was in the case." John said, calm as can be. "You had some kind of break, and passed out as Greg and I patched you up."

"Who?" Sherlock asked absently, sniffing at the wonderful scent coming from John's hair. His doctor was naked, and so was he, and Sherlock felt his body take notice, rather urgently.

"Lestrade, you loon." John said, and threw a leg over Sherlock's hip. John noticed the state Sherlock was in, and chuckled. Sherlock grinned, and figured everything must be all right, as John's hand had started to wander down his chest, over his stomach. Sherlock knew where John was going, and he felt his heart race in anticipation.

John moved his leg, and let his hand wrap around Sherlock's cock, stroking it slowly. Sherlock groaned, and lifted his hips, tightening his arm around John. Sherlock closed his eyes, as John got him harder, and he lifted his hips just slightly, in time with his doctor's clever hands. John was moving down, pushing off the covers. Sherlock smiled, and opened his eyes just in time to see John slip his mouth over his cock. John looped an arm over his thighs, holding him down, and lifted his head, mouth sucking hard. He caught Sherlock's eye, and held his gaze as he swallowed Sherlock all the way, the head of his cock nudging the back of John's throat.

Sherlock let out a low moan, determined not to close his eyes. He wanted to watch this, needed to watch John please him. The doctor wrapped two fingers around the base of his cock, and as his mouth would lift away, sucking hard up towards the head, his fingers would follow close behind. Mouth and fingers tight, John stroked back down, swallowing, tongue licking inside his mouth along the underside of his lover's cock.

Sherlock let a hand float down, and he grasped the back of John's neck, squeezing gently in approval, encouraging John to keep going. John deep-throated him again, eyes burning brightly in satisfaction as Sherlock moaned each time. Again and again John tortured him, finding the perfect pace. Sherlock felt that glorious sensation start to build in him, and his toes began to curl. His skin shivered in the cool morning air, and he got bigger, harder. John's wet, hot, wonderful mouth was the best thing in the entire world. He twitched, in response to John's hand working its way under him, fingers sliding around his ass. Sherlock knew where John was going, and lifted his hips, letting John press a finger firmly to him. John just held the pressure there, waiting on something. His finger felt wonderful, and Sherlock couldn't stop himself, his eyes drifted shut, and he let John touch him, however he wanted. John was in control of him, totally holding him under his spell. Mouth, hands, that one strong finger working into his ass, Sherlock was helpless to them all.

He felt it, as it started to build, calming just before it crashed over him; that sensation he knew was an orgasm. He had no control, no experience in how to encourage it to fill him up, to make it happen faster. All he could do was trust John, that his love would know what he needed, how to give it to him. John's mouth was a miracle, and the wet sliding of his strong tongue over the head of his cock made Sherlock jerk. John pushed his finger in deep, and Sherlock knew it was happening. His finger touched a spot inside him, a place that lit the dynamite that destroyed the dam. Sherlock screamed, the sound bouncing off the bedroom walls.

The wave spilled free, and Sherlock was drowning under it, uncaring, as his body spasmed, John sucking deeply as Sherlock came in his mouth. John groaned, and thrust that finger into Sherlock again, making his detective jerk in response, another thick shot filling his mouth. Sherlock was lost, tumbled under the waves of pleasure that crashed into his mind. Every suck and lick of John's mouth made him spasm, and John pulled his hand away, moving his mouth carefully, easily. Soothing his love, as Sherlock swam back to reality.

John licked up every drop, the taste of his detective strong on his tongue. John lifted away, and rested against Sherlock's hip. Sherlock could do nothing but lay there, trembling in the morning light from the window, trying to get air back into his body. John crawled back up to him, and Sherlock hugged him to his chest, finding his lips, eyes still shut. Sherlock kissed John, tasting traces of his release in his lover's mouth, thanking John as best he could with his tongue and lips.

John kissed him back, hands holding tight to Sherlock's shoulders, laying on top of his detective. John pulled back, and Sherlock could just manage to crack his eyes open enough to see the smug satisfaction on John's face. Sherlock smiled, fighting off the urge to sleep. His eyes were heavy, and John smiled at him, knowingly. He reached down for the blankets, and Sherlock held him tight, keeping John resting on top of him. The blankets fell over them both, and John tucked his head under Sherlock's chin, snuggling beneath the covers. The warm weight of his doctor in his arms swayed Sherlock under, and a part of him knew John was smiling as he fell back asleep.

….

This time when he woke up, he knew where he was, and that John was wrapped up in his arms. The sun had shifted, the light angled away from the bed, no longer shining in his eyes. Sherlock looked at the man still laying half on him, his solid weight comforting. He couldn't tell if John was awake or not, and he rubbed his jaw in his doctor's soft hair.

Sherlock pondered his current situation, realizing that his life was so vastly different, and yet so similar, to how it used to be. John was in his life, so deeply ingrained Sherlock knew he was rendered anew. He had become so vital, so quickly, that Sherlock knew he could never walk away again. That sensation that stirred in him only in response to John swept in from his extremities, rushing across his mind, and Sherlock held John tighter.

"I love you." He whispered, burying his nose in the sandy blonde hair, streaked with grey. It didn't matter if John could hear him, he had to say it. Like drawing air in to live, Sherlock had to tell John he loved him.

John stirred, arms hugging him, leg tightening around Sherlock's. Some part of him must be aware enough to have heard, and he snuggled in deeper under the covers. Sherlock pulled John fully on top of him, not bothered at all by the doctor's weight. John wasn't a large man by any means, but he had muscles, and he was heavier than he looked. Sherlock let John treat him like a pillow, absorbing and sharing their body heat. The sun might be warm, but the days were steadily getting colder, winter coming on strong this year. The bedroom was chilly, and Sherlock knew the floor was freezing.

John slowly woke up, having fallen back asleep after their earlier adventure. He turned his head and rested his chin on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock watched as John blinked away the cobwebs, his dark eyes focusing on Sherlock's. John smiled at him, that sweet smile he never showed anyone else. Sherlock lifted his hand, and traced the fine lines next to his doctor's eyes, down his nose, across his lips, before cupping his face. Sherlock kissed him, light and chaste, and pulled back to catch another sweet smile. He smiled back, neither needing words to let the other know what they were feeling, thinking. The passion between them was quiet, simmering gently in the background, and they were content to snuggle, relaxed.

John brought a hand up, buried it in his curls, tugging one lock out straight, watching as it sprang back to a tight curl once he let it go. He kept doing this, thoroughly absorbed. Sherlock let him, growing amused by the fact his doctor loved to do something so silly. John particularly liked the one that always fell over Sherlock's brow, and John smiled, realizing that it was far longer than he thought. If Sherlock's hair wasn't so curly, it would reach inches past his ears in some places.

John played with his hair for what felt like forever, until Sherlock brought up his injured hand, and he saw the state of the bandage. Sherlock grimaced in distaste, as he must have ripped a stitch. The blood had seeped through all the way, and it had dried nearly black in the center. John grabbed his hand, and got an annoyed look on his face before sitting up, and rolling off of Sherlock.

"Well, that didn't last long, now did it?" John grumbled, leaning off the side of the bed, digging for his bag. Sherlock rolled over, propping his head on his uninjured hand. Knowing full well John was going to want his hand looked at, he plopped it down next to John on the bed with a dramatic sigh.

"Looks like you ripped a stitch, love. I'll need to change this out, clean it off." John said, as he cut away the ruined gauze. Sherlock cast a quick glance at John, wondering if John even noticed the endearment. He had a feeling John had called him 'love' at least a few times already, and thought it peculiar. Not in a bad way, just a he's-never-called-me-that-before way.

"'Love'?" Sherlock asked quietly, watching as John carefully pulled away the gauze where the blood had dried it to his skin. It hurt, but Sherlock punted the pain away, letting it fade until he didn't even feel it. John paused for a second before he spoke.

"Um, yeah, sorry. Wasn't thinking." John said, sounding mildly embarrassed. "Do you mind? I'll stop if you do."

"No, it's fine. Really." Sherlock murmured, relaxing into the mattress, curving himself around John where he sat on the edge of the bed. "No one but my mother or Mrs. Hudson has ever called me that, but it's fine."

"Did you just compare me to your mother?" John laughed, looking at Sherlock.

"Possibly. Limited understanding, odd habits, like making me eat and sleep. There's a resemblance." Sherlock smirked, and ducked his head when John playfully swatted at him. John glared at him, but it melted away when Sherlock smiled and curved closer. He rubbed Sherlock's curls, and the doctor went back to tending his hand.

"Yeah you pulled a stitch, not too badly though. It's slightly inflamed; I'll give you some more antibiotics in a bit." John wiped at his cut with an antiseptic swab, cleaning away the dried blood between his fingers. The doctor was gentle, and did his work with smooth skill. Sherlock felt all warm and fuzzy, and he was ready to fall back asleep from the sensation John was invoking in him.

"Hhhhmmmm." He mumbled, snaking his free arm around the other man's waist, his long form wrapped tightly to John's back and hips. Sherlock nuzzled his face into his lover's hip, and sighed in contentment.

"Comfortable, I see." John said over his head, wrapping his hand. Sherlock just hummed happily, dosing off, John's scent and salty skin against his lips making him very interested in staying where he was. Right up until he felt a cold alcohol swab and a sharp needle stick in his upper arm.

"Bloody hell! John!" His happy mood gone, Sherlock jerked at the unexpected jab. He rolled away from John as he lifted the syringe from his arm. Sherlock growled under his breath, and John ignored him, putting the needle back in its sterile wrapping, throwing it on the nightstand.

"No sulking, I did say I was going to give you a shot." He smiled at Sherlock's pout, and laughed when Sherlock pulled the covers over his head, grumbling about evil doctors and torture devices. "None of that now, love." John lifted the corner, and peeked underneath. He caught a glimpse of dark curls, and the flash of jewel-bright eyes narrowed in displeasure.

Sherlock pretended not to notice when John snuggled back under the covers, rolling over and trying to ignore the strong arm that roped around his hips. John pressed himself fully against Sherlock, groin snug and flush with the detective's ass. He tried his best to ignore the hand that found his cock and started to rub, with gentle strokes. He tried, but his body came roaring to life, and he heard John chuckle into his shoulder. John was aroused, and Sherlock groaned when John thrust his hips a little, rubbing his cock on his ass.

"I think it's my turn, Sherlock." John whispered in his ear, kissing his neck.

Sherlock moaned once, as John pushed harder. Tense with need, Sherlock was shaking in tiny tremors from John's hand stroking his full length, masterful fingers pulling and tugging. John was suddenly gone, rolling away from Sherlock, leaving him gasping and wondering what his doctor was doing.

"John? What…" He gasped, as John had rolled back, and Sherlock felt John's fingers grasping at his buttocks. He knew instantly where John had gone to so briefly, as a very well lubricated finger pushed its way into him. John must have had lubricant of some kind in his bag, and Sherlock got even more excited. It was dark and warm under the covers, and Sherlock felt surrounded by his doctor, his hands and mouth seemingly everywhere.

"I'm a very well prepared doctor." John growled in his ear, making Sherlock grin.

Strong fingers pushed into him, two at first, and then three. Sherlock relaxed fully, thrusting his hips back at John, eager for more. He was getting impatient, wanting John inside him. John teased him, his fingers pulling out all the way, only to push firmly back in.

"John!" Sherlock demanded, and John kissed the back of his neck, sucking lightly.

"Patience." He whispered back, and he pulled his fingers away one last time. John lined himself up, and with one strong thrust of his hips, buried himself to the hilt inside of Sherlock.

Sherlock couldn't think; he could do nothing but hold on to the arm wrapped securely around him. John rocked his hips slowly, refusing to go fast, taking his lover at a deep, steady pace. John moved against Sherlock's back, his whole body rubbing and touching his detective. Sherlock was reduced to a moaning, quivering pile of limbs and loose muscles, helpless under John's strong hands, his powerful hips. All of John's years of sexual experience told him the perfect rhythm, and he used it on his lover. Deep, slow thrusts, filling Sherlock all the way, pausing for half a heartbeat before slowly pulling out. The head of his cock slipped in and out of Sherlock's tight hole, and Sherlock whimpered deep in his throat as John timed his thrusts back in with strokes to Sherlock's cock.

John was determined to take care of Sherlock. He angled is hips, plunging himself deeper, rubbing the head of his cock on the other man's prostate. He could do this forever, fucking the most perfect person in this world, this perfect man in his arms. John groaned, and knew he was getting ready. He worked Sherlock faster, giving Sherlock the hard fucking his body was begging for. Sherlock swelled in his hands, and tightened around his cock. Sherlock came, and John plunged faster, moaning and grunting as he thrust deeper, Sherlock coming hard around his cock.

Sherlock was shouting, face buried in a pillow, body convulsing in waves of release and pleasure. He was helpless as John fucked him hard, no control over his body. He came so hard he was sobbing, and John chose that moment to orgasm as well, deep shots pumping into Sherlock. Both men clung to each other, rocking as they climaxed; John buried deep, his hand stroking Sherlock as he came on the sheets. John groaned loudly, his cock pulsing in time to Sherlock's quivering body.

John held Sherlock as the younger man shook and clung to him. John hugged him tightly, comforting Sherlock as he tried to recover from the powerful orgasm. He was shaking, hands clutching at John's arms. John slowly and gently withdrew from Sherlock, kissing his lover as Sherlock jumped in response. Sherlock had come so hard he couldn't handle it. He was sobbing quietly, overcome. John turned Sherlock to him, and pulled until the younger man buried himself in his chest. He hugged him, running a hand through dark, soft curls, soothing.

"Shush, it's okay, you're fine. Shhh…." John whispered to him, running a hand up and down the detective's back. "The big ones can do that, it's okay, sshhhhh…"

Sherlock eventually stopped shivering, and he snuck an arm out and hugged John back, snuggling deeper into his embrace. John smiled, and held his detective, both of them still hiding under the blankets, the world shut out, just the two of them, and their love.

* * *

><p>Lestrade checked his mobile again, for twelfth time in the last hour. He couldn't help it; even when he put it away, intending not to look unless it went off, he would forget, and impatiently check for a message. He was sitting at his desk in his office, and he heard the sounds of a busy day through the door. He couldn't concentrate on the cases in front of him, nor the paperwork needing his signature.<p>

Lestrade sighed at himself, he knew he was being stupid, but he couldn't resist anymore. He gave up, and went back into his Inbox, and scrolled through the texts from the night before. He zipped past all the work related ones, the ones from Donovan demanding to know what was going on. He skipped the ones from the surveillance teams, and the guards stationed on Baker Street. He kept going, until he got to the last one, the one from the man at MI6.

**Goodnight, Detective Inspector. –MH**

The Inspector stared at it, and felt this tiny spark of something flash in his chest. He hadn't been happy for so long, not since the debacle of a marriage that had ended a couple of years back. Not since Sherlock Fell. Since he had last seen Mycroft Holmes. He hardly recognized it, so foreign to him was the emotion.

Lestrade had been happy only once more recently, and that was when a certain consulting detective ambushed him in the precinct's garage. Sherlock had so brazenly stepped from the shadows, all cool looking and so obviously not dead that Lestrade had skipped past the anger and went straight to thankful. Sherlock's face as he hugged him had been priceless, too.

Lestrade knew he was being stupid. He really did. He knew his fascination with his friend's big brother was pointless, immature, and guaranteed to get him embarrassed and hurt. Back when he first met Sherlock, damn near nine years ago now, he had very quickly been introduced to the specter that was Mycroft Holmes. A call had come down from on high, he had found himself escorted to a black car, and then shuffled off to a clandestine meeting with the man who would quickly become something of an obsession.

Lestrade had played it cool, and had listened quietly to the man who introduced himself as the older brother of the very intelligent and highly irritating 'consulting detective' he had met just that morning. Lestrade was no fool, regardless of what Sherlock might think. He knew power when he saw it, and knew very well that Mycroft Holmes would be a powerful enemy, or a beneficial friend. And so it had been proven, over the years.

If he looked after Sherlock, and let him 'assist' (which quickly became take over, and let Lestrade catch the glory) on cases, then Mycroft would cover for his brother's errant behavior, and protect Lestrade in turn.

Lestrade hadn't seen the harm, he really hadn't. Sherlock had solved in one hour a case that had stumped the best of them for a week. And done it in such a way as to offend everyone, but be so bloody right no one really did anything about the annoying aspect. Sherlock had then swanned off, ignoring the glares from insulted officers, and told Lestrade to call him when he needed help again. And Lestrade had needed him, and he did indeed call.

And so began a relationship that was still awkward and annoying and precarious, but Lestrade found himself loving the irascible consultant. Not that he would EVER tell Sherlock that. Nor would he ever mention the happiness that he'd experience when Mycroft would text him, call him, summon him for reports or to give him instructions.

Greg Lestrade was a man happy to be in a state of denial, because he knew if he tried to be anything more to the elder Holmes besides a nanny for his brother, Mycroft would disappear. Lestrade knew, and he just stayed in this frustrating place, pretending he was happy, putting up a front. He lived alone in this place of random happiness, as he lived alone in the cold empty flat he used to call home.

Lestrade looked at the text, and he wondered what it meant. Mycroft had never, ever texted anything like this before to him. Ever. What did it mean? Sure, Mycroft would chat with him sometimes, always polite, but nice. They would talk for a long time, about anything. He was nice to him, when he had no reason to be, and from everything he saw in how he acted with others, including his own blood, Mycroft Holmes wasn't nice. So why was he nice to a forty-something detective inspector from Scotland Yard?

Lestrade bit his lip, and rubbed his thumb over the text. He sighed, and just stared at it. Wondering.

* * *

><p>The day was cold, but the sun was warm, not much help as it rarely came out from behind the clouds. The morning had been sunny, but as the day continued on, it had quickly gotten colder, and winter was heavy on the horizon. The autumn had been cold so far, and getting colder, far colder than was usual for London. The sun was bright and glaring when it slashed through the clouds, warming those below briefly before the wind whipped up, and the shadows returned.<p>

The two women were bundled up against the wind, stylish and sexy in their long black coats. They had black hats on, and Mary smiled at the matching picture they made. Mary tucked her chin into her collar, glad Death's men had packed up her cold weather gear. Winter was most definitely coming early this year.

Death stood beside her, her long mahogany hair braided back, and tucked under her black hat. The brim was pulled low, obscuring her face, and her collar was up as well. They stood just down the street from Scotland Yard, confident that the CCTV feeds wouldn't catch them where they were at.

"When are your men going to be ready?" Mary asked, and she kept scanning the street, making sure no one was taking particular note of her unless she wanted them too. Death was listening to her teams on an earpiece hidden beneath her hat. She would tell Mary once they were in position, the drivers getting ready to provide each woman with an escape.

"Soon. Yours will be the most arduous, are you certain you still wish to do it?" Death asked her, and her wild eyes glanced at Mary, at odds with the concern in her voice. Mary nodded, knowing Death was right to be worried, especially after last night.

They had broken into the building across from 221B the night before. Mary remembered with glee the stricken look on Sherlock's face as she slowly, and very menacingly, put the laser sight over his heart with her sniper rifle. Death had held hers on John, and Mary had been glad for it. Death had impeccable control, whereas Mary might have accidentally pulled the trigger, just from seeing John sleeping in his chair in his lover's flat. Her anger had been so overwhelming that Mary had to struggle not to pull the trigger herself, and end Holmes where he sat at the table. It was Death's voice from the darkness next to her, saying that they needed to go, that had roped her emotions under control. They had made their point. She knew it, and Death knew it. And from the look on Holmes' face, he knew it too.

It wasn't until they had returned to the estate outside London that Mary's body had betrayed her, as she got violently ill, vomiting up her supper. Death had rubbed her back, saying nothing. Mary knew she was conflicted; killing for vengeance, for revenge, had never been her way. She got paid to take out targets, and she did with callous efficiency. Or she used too. Killing for emotional reasons was an alien concept to her. But after tonight, she would have no trouble. Experiencing something was the only way to adapt to it.

"I'll be fine. I'll see you at the estate once I'm done. Have fun with yours." Mary turned, and disappeared into the crowds.

Today they would let London experience their rage. The city would burn until Holmes was dead.

* * *

><p>Sherlock stepped out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him. John was drying off, and the air in the hallway was frigid compared to the warm mist from the shower. Sherlock didn't care that he was naked, he fully planned on getting back into bed.<p>

Sherlock cast a vaguely nervous glance towards the front room, avoiding the windows where the noonday sun filtered in. He had a haunting recollection of slamming the bedroom door shut last night, the echoes from the noise bouncing in the hall, and his memory. Sherlock lost all memory of what happened after that point, and that made him very nervous. He refused to show it, knowing it would only worry John, and make him question Sherlock's sanity. As he was questioning it.

Having a panic induced breakdown was slightly different than what Sherlock feared had really happened. Sherlock was afraid he had gotten so frightened, so overwhelmingly terrified at his helplessness, at his inability to protect John, that he had deleted it. Everything from the second he slammed the door last night to the fog dream just before he woke up that morning. All of it deleted. Gone. Deleted out of an instinctual desire to protect himself.

He hadn't lost control of his mind palace like that since he was a child, and first learning to use it. For him to delete an experience as he lived it was very troublesome. Sherlock felt fine now; he truly did. Cautious, yes, but not afraid. So whatever it was that he had felt last night, it was too much for him to handle. Using his emotions was going to be far more problematic than he had anticipated.

John opened the door behind him, and nearly ran into him.

"Sherl', why are you standing naked in the hall?" John asked, walking around him into the bedroom. Sherlock followed behind him, smirking at another nickname that John was using without noticing.

"It's my hall." Sherlock said, throwing himself back on the bed, not bothering with the blankets. John threw him a look that clearly said he knew better, and pulled on a pair of sweatpants. John jumped up on the bed next to him, laying out beside his detective in much the same pose.

"So, Sherl', is it safe to stay here or should we be thinking about moving?" John asked, hands on his stomach, looking up at the ceiling. Sherlock hummed quietly, and John tossed him a look when he didn't answer. "Seeing as how two crazy assassins decided to throw a laser show in the flat."

John nudged him with his elbow. No response.

Sherlock had stopped listening, the word 'moving' circling in his head. John saw his face, and just watched him, waiting. He knew that look. Moving from the flat had evoked thoughts of trying to find a new place to live, which had then spawned the thought of houses, buildings, places people choose to live, to go home to. Packing up belongings, gear, tools. Chose to be at…..

_How did this all begin? Not with Moriarty, not with Mary. How did this begin….Blackwood. Why use Blackwood to announce your intentions to the world? They went there, to that specific place. I thought it was because of the isolated location, so that they could stage such a dramatic show without interruption. And I know that's part of it. But how did Death know about Blackwood? No one knew about it, the world had forgotten it existed. So how does she know about it? And why did she pick that place? And the boat, the one they used getting to Blackwood, where is the boat? Did no one look for the boat? I told Lestrade to find the boat, didn't I? It could have been rented, stolen, or it could be owned…_

Sherlock sat up abruptly, eyes wild, excited. John sat up too, curious. He had waited patiently while Sherlock processed whatever epiphanies he was having. John waited, holding his breath. It was big, whatever it was. Sherlock turned to him, and John felt a thrill of excitement race down his spine at the satisfaction and delight in Sherlock's eyes.

"John, you are a miracle." Sherlock reached out, grabbed his head, and gave him a crushing kiss full on the lips before leaping off the bed. "A bastion of revelations! Unrivalled in this world!"

Sherlock tore out of the bedroom, and John crawled off the bed, chasing after his very excited, and very naked, lover. Sherlock dashed to his coat, tearing through his pockets for his mobile. John glanced at the windows, and bit back a grin. He really hoped the surveillance teams stationed on the roof across the street weren't choosing this particular moment to look in the flat. Sherlock had found his mobile, and he was excitedly calling someone. Still totally naked.

"C'mon, answer! Dammit! Lestrade!" Sherlock was nearly shouting, so thrilled was he at finally getting through. "Shut up! Listen! _Did you find the boat they used at Blackwood_?"

Sherlock stressed that question, everything seeming to hinge on Lestrade's answer. John watched as Sherlock's face went from dementedly hopeful to outrageously exasperated in milliseconds.

"Dear God man! Find it! I told you the specifications for the boat before I left that day, must I do it all? Find the boat, we may yet find the disciple! Call me immediately, no waiting!"

Sherlock hung up, and John was about to ask before he saw Sherlock was dialing yet again. It rang, going long enough without being answered that Sherlock was pacing in frustration and impatience.

"Mycroft! Stop spying on Asia and find out who used to own Blackwood Chemical, the place where Death staged her debut." Sherlock was still pacing, and John was thinking he might want to close the drapes. "Yes, of course I'm fine! What do you mean? No, I don't need you to come over, John's here, I'm perfectly fine. Find out who owned Blackwood, all I know is that the place was condemned after the owner died twenty years back. I don't recall who the owner actually was."

Sherlock turned to John, who was closing the drapes. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his doctor being so close to the windows, but John didn't see him and Sherlock was distracted by his older brother being his usual pain in the arse-ness. "Just do it. Call me."

Sherlock ended the call, and only then did he notice he was still very naked. It was rather chilly in the flat, and the doors were all open. John had closed the drapes, and Sherlock figured out why once he thought about it. He felt slightly out of sorts about the surveillance teams seeing him naked, but he figured they were the spies; they had most likely seen worse.

"Hmmmm, pants." Sherlock mumbled to himself, and walked back down the hall. John followed behind him, impatient and wanting to know what was going on.

"Okay, I got most of that from your half of the conversations. You figure we find the boat, we may find a clue as to identity and location, and we find out who owned Blackwood, we might find out how Death knew to use it?" John said, as Sherlock pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms. John smiled when he saw Sherlock raid John's undershirts for a shirt to wear, pulling one on instead of going two more feet to his closet and grabbing one of his own.

"Yes, John, exactly. We may get very lucky, and Death has been careless enough to leave a trail to where she is hiding, or even who she is." Sherlock still clung to his mobile, glaring at it every few seconds as it stubbornly refused to ring. He stalked out of the bedroom and John huffed in annoyance. Once Sherlock got this antsy, it was almost impossible to slow him down to normal human speeds.

Sherlock planted himself in his chair, his mobile perched on his knee, still stubbornly silent. John threw himself in his chair, and grabbed the nearest paper. Sherlock was fidgeting, fingers drumming on his knee. Sherlock needed a new case, and badly. One that didn't involve pyscho ex-fiancés and disciples. John looked out around the paper occasionally at his lover, and each time Sherlock was staring at the mobile, brows furrowed, willing it to ring.

They sat like that for a while, before John got bored. He peeked over the top of the page, and looked at Sherlock. He still hadn't moved. Still staring at the stubbornly silent mobile. John laughed, and went back to reading, sinking deeper into his seat and propping his feet up on the edge of Sherlock's chair. He sat like that for a few minutes, and he jumped when he felt long fingers wrap themselves around one of his ankles. John smiled, and kept on reading, enjoying the thumb rubbing circles on his skin.

* * *

><p>Sally Donovan was late, and she hated being late. She had left the Yard earlier to question a witness, and Lestrade had called her on her way back, telling her not to bother going home, to just come back in. She held back from telling him that she had no plans to go home, that all she was going to do there was watch crap telly and drink herself to sleep.<p>

Sherlock Holmes, again. She knew it. Always that man. He was aggravating and just plain weird. And Lestrade followed that man's lead like he was the Detective Inspector, and not a busy body civilian who always mangled things. Never mind that he was always right, and he closed more cases than any single detective at Scotland Yard. Sally hated him, and she wasn't afraid to show it.

Well, she used to hate him. Two years ago, she and her friend-with-benefits Anderson had been convinced, so absolutely convinced, that Sherlock Holmes was a fake, a liar, and a psychopath bent on breaking all the laws she held dear. She had done her best to convince Lestrade, but in the end she had only partially succeeded. She had to go around Lestrade, to his superiors, and finally gotten someone to listen.

Then the world ended. Sherlock had evaded capture along with his partner Dr Watson, and the very next day committed suicide from the roof of St Bart's. He had died, and it was so unexpected, so obviously against everything she had believed about Holmes, that it left her foundering in disbelief. Never had she expected such an action from Holmes. Complaining, bickering, whining, and yelling, yes. But suicide? It had hurt, so badly was she shaken.

And the month after? When she had been with Lestrade that day he dropped by 221B to see if John Watson was okay? That day haunted her. Haunted her so badly that when she got home that night, she had downed an entire bottle of wine trying to rid herself of the image of a soul-bereft man. John Watson had been a hallow shell of a man, a body without heart or higher thought. He had talked, moved, responded to questions, but there had been no person behind his eyes. The death of his partner had destroyed the man she had always thought to be misguided, but still a decent man. Still a good person. And she had contributed to the destruction of his world, no matter how right she had thought she was to do so at the time. Sally had felt her convictions, her steadfast belief that Holmes had been a lie falter in the face of John Watson's grief. And she was haunted, guilt following her with every step.

When she had the misfortune this past week to see John Watson again in person, her guilt had come flooding out of her soul, compounded by the fact that Holmes had been exonerated by her own superiors just weeks earlier. Sherlock Holmes had been everything he had claimed to be from the very beginning, and she had let her personal prejudices distort her judgment, and sour her reputation. And to see the righteous anger and fury on John Watson's face had felt like a well-deserved slap in the face. She took the punishment she dealt herself in silence, refraining from stepping back into old habits, because she deserved Watson's anger, and Holmes' indifference. She deserved it all.

Sally exited the cab just outside the front of Scotland Yard, pausing to catch her scarf as the wind threatened to carry it away. The weather had steadily gotten worse from the lovely morning the day had started with, and she looked up at the sky in apprehension. Surely it was too early for snow, but the wind was so cold it felt like it could start any minute. The sun couldn't decide whether it wanted to stay hidden, or keep shining. Sally didn't see the woman in front of her until it was too late, walking into her and bumping off of the other woman.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't see you. Are you okay?" Sally asked, incredibly embarrassed. She had trouble seeing the other woman's face, as she was bundled up against the cold in a high collared coat and low black hat.

"Oh, I'm just fine, dear. But you are not so lucky." She said, reaching up to tilt the rim of her hat back, revealing the face of Sybil Moran.

Sally was briefed just that morning by Lestrade, and she knew the face of the most wanted woman in Europe well from the pictures Lestrade had given her. She was beautiful, and the mania in her eyes made Sally snap out of her shock and reach for her gun. Her hand went to her hip, but she felt nothing. Sally looked down, and saw her gun, and its holster, were gone. Just gone. Sally looked up, and caught a glimpse of a maniacal smile contorting Moran's lovely face before she faltered. Sally tried to move, tried to reach out and grab the other woman's arm. She tried, she truly did.

Nothing was working right. Her fingers were numb, and Sally couldn't remember why she was so upset. Why was she scared? Why was that woman scaring her?

Death caught Sargent Donovan's arm as the other woman began to pass out under the effects of the drug she had administered during her well-timed collision. She hadn't felt a thing, the needle sliding effortlessly into her side, as Death grabbed her weapon and pocketed it.

One of her men joined her, and placed an arm around the policewoman's waist. Holding her up like she was getting a hug from a friend. There they stood in front of Scotland Yard, and no one saw the imminent danger that Sally Donovan was in. Death nodded to her man, and waved him off to the black car that had pulled up behind them at the curb. He got in, carrying the unresponsive policewoman with him. No one saw, no one stopped them.

Death smiled, and turned towards the corner of the building, where several CCTV cameras were pointing down on the square in front of Scotland Yard. She deliberately moved into the line of sight of the closest, and reached up, and pulled off her hat. Her braid fell down her back, and she looked directly into the camera. She smiled her most lovely, gracious mile, and nodded once, before donning the hat, and sedately getting in her car. She pulled the door shut behind her, and the powerful engine growled as the car leapt away from Scotland Yard. Countless police officers within shouting distance, and all of them useless.

How easily she had stolen one of their own. Now it was Mary's turn.

* * *

><p>Mary counted until ten, and then moved down the hall. The camera above her panned down the hall in the opposite direction, and she waiting until it was sweeping back before she moved again. She moved with a fluid grace, having done something like this many, many times before. She used to call it the 'Camera Dance' when she was younger, bored with routine break-ins and the killing of old men. She had even danced the waltz once, almost getting caught in her silliness. The guard she had to knife who caught her playing had cooled her mirth, settling her back down into the right mindset.<p>

Once you knew the beat, the rhythm of these cameras, you could always get through. It was the stationary ones that were really tricky. Especially in long hallways with no doors.

This was easy. This was the maintenance corridor of CAM Headquarters in London. She was on the 31st floor, and this corridor was only monitored by the sweeping cameras. She had poured over the intelligence she had gotten from Death, and she knew exactly where she was going. She waited those last few seconds, and slipped into the guard station at the end of the hall. It was break time, and one of the guards was downstairs in the lobby, hitting on a hot barista and getting a pastry his arteries didn't need. Mary walked in silently, and the one remaining guard was unconscious quickly, the butt of her pistol making a dull thud in the quiet room. He slumped in his chair in front of the camera monitors, and Mary rolled him out of the way, into the corner.

Mary looked quickly over the screens, trying to find her target. He was nowhere on the office level, and she scanned through the screens, assessing and dismissing them one by one.

_There! I've got you, you rat bastard! _Mary grinned, her lips pulling up into a menacing smile. It was time to get vengeance. This was the man who had kidnapped John, and almost burned him alive, just to see if Sherlock Holmes would give a shit. He had spilled the truth of her existence to her former masters, destroying her life once she was no longer potentially useful. He was going to die. And there was no one to stop her.

Mary accessed the cameras, disabling them all. She then turned to the hard drives and servers in the corner of the room, and inserted the block of C4 deep inside the cooling cabinet, in the shadows where no one would see it. Once she was done, she would detonate the explosives. No chance of the stray camera shot of her being here would survive, and one would be able to see what was going on if they came in here before she was gone.

Mary grabbed the back of the security guard's chair, the man still limp and unresponsive. She pulled him out into the hall, and dragged him down the far end, pushing him into a small maintenance closet and shutting the door. She had an issue with collateral damage, and if he stayed in the security room once she blew the charge, he would die. His partner wasn't due back for another forty minutes. Plenty of time.

She jogged down the hall, and found the access to the ventilation. This was a large building wide system, and the air ducts were more similar to elevator shafts than those found in residential homes. They even came with very sturdy metal ladders, perfect for the intrepid assassin to get around in.

Mary knew she had to move fast, Magnussen was in his bedroom, presumably changing for dinner. She climbed swiftly, going to the residence level faster this way than taking the stairs. Mary wasn't fazed by the great drop below her, nor the whirring of fans and the drone of machinery. She stopped, and pushed on the panel she needed. It opened easily, and she dropped into the A/C maintenance room for this level. She was four rooms down from Magnussen's bedroom, and she needed to be there before he came out. There was only one way out of his room, but once he entered the hall he had multiple exits.

Mary opened the door, and peeked out, looking both ways. Magnussen only had two guards in his personal areas, relying instead on the building's built insecurity features to stop intruders. More foolish he. There was no movement, and she took the chance he was still in his room. Mary propped the door ajar with a broom, and silently glided down the hall towards her target.

She pulled her nine mil from the holster on her thigh, the silencer adding a minor weight she hardly ever noticed anymore. Mary moved along the wall, hugging the shadows. She paused outside the door, and listened. There was the sound of a single person breathing just past the door, and she shifted, glancing quickly around the edge of the partly open door.

He stood at the mirror just to the right of the doorway, adjusting his tie. She listened, and there was no one else in there to worry about. Mary dropped the gun down, holding it casually by her thigh. She reached out, and lightly pushed on the door, opening it all the way and stepping through.

Charles Augustus Magnussen was not expecting anyone, much less an assassin he had sold out for information on his rival. Her sudden appearance in his private space was as much of a shock as the sight of the gun she held at her side.

"What! What do you think you are doing? How did you get in here?" He stammered, backing away, coming up against the large glass window that made up the entire wall.

London shined outside his window, the evening sun setting swiftly. The rays of gold and bronze shined across her face, illuminating her brilliant blue eyes, her porcelain skin. She was given a halo of light, her hair shining like a beacon. She was a lovely woman by any standard. She could see just fine, the angle of her stance letting her benefit from the light without being blinded by it. His tall form cast a long shadow, a black line on the golden floor. It stretched out across the entire room, and she stopped just shy of it, refusing to touch any part of him.

This man was as evil as they came. He took a perverse, deviant pleasure in violating people, their privacy, and then feeding off their pain and misery. He had no issue ruining lives the second they became inconvenient. He was a leech, a parasite on the souls of hundreds. The pain and despair of his victims was his favorite food, one he slobbered on and despoiled before sucking it down, destroying any shred of decency he may once have harbored in his shriveled soul.

"I have come to settle a debt, Magnussen." Mary said, her voice light, sweet. She smiled at him, her eyes twinkling brightly in the setting sun. There was no threat in her stance, the gun at her side seemingly forgotten. He held his hands out, beseechingly.

"A debt? What do you mean?" he asked, though he very well knew. He remembered everything, this man. Nothing slipped by him. She knew he was stalling, hoping against hope for one of his men to come up behind her and take her out. She also knew that he thought she was referring to her identity being leaked.

"There are hundreds of debts leveled against you, Magnussen. So many broken hearts, destroyed dreams. But there is only one debt that matters now." Mary put her finger on the trigger, knowing her couldn't see her hand in the blinding light, the shifting rays. He was focused on her face, falsely comforted by her smile, her unthreatening charm. The light was racing time across the horizon, and she knew the sun would set any moment.

"What debt do you mean? I assure you my dear, it was nothing personal, the selling of your identity. Perhaps we could make a trade? Perhaps there is something I know, someone I own, that could be of use to you? My life for whatever you want, you have only to ask." He told her, trying his best to convince this lovely woman not to kill him. He felt he had a good chance, as she had made no move to pull the trigger, and not once had she pointed the weapon at him. Everyone had a weakness, something they wanted, or needed. He felt certain that she had hers.

"There is something I want from you." Mary said, and she smiled as he relaxed slightly at her words. He saw her smile, and stood straighter, thinking she was willing to make a deal. "But first this debt you owe."

"Name it, we shall settle this like business people, yes? One professional to another." He said, fixing his tie, relaxing enough to fuss at his jacket. "There is much I could do for you."

"John Watson." One name. And that name was enough. Magnussen looked confused, for he knew John had left her, and why she would consider John a debt was beyond him. Mary smiled, and his face grew even more confused. The sun crowned her in its dying glory, her eyes as bright as the morning sky had been. "I don't care all that much about myself, I truly don't. I knew my dream of a happy life could evaporate any minute. But you put the only person I have ever loved into a bonfire and let it be lit. You took him from me as surely as you took him from Sherlock. While I am not his true love, he is mine. Forever."

"Then what can I do for you, to settle this affront?" He asked.

"Die." Mary said, as she lifted the gun, and she reveled in the sudden fear that eclipsed his eyes, the second before she pulled the trigger. The bullet pierced his skull, just above and between his eyes. He died so fast he had no time to fully feel his fear. "And what I want is for you to go to Hell."

His body slumped against the glass wall, and he fell slowly to the floor just as the last flash of the setting sun vanished from the room. His eyes were truly vacant now, his body as empty as the remnants of his soul.

Mary stood over his body, and she sighed. Too fast, too soon. But she couldn't spare the time to fully satisfy her rage, her sorrow. She had done this for John just as much as she had for herself. Though she knew he would never approve, he would call this murder. Strangely enough, she knew Sherlock would understand, and forgive her for it. Too bad he would never know.

Mary had avenged her love, and ironically enough, saved Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes in the process. Magnussen had been gunning hard for both men, weeks away from attempting to manipulate Sherlock into betraying his brother. Whatever secret he held over the Holmes' brothers was as dead as he, now.

She turned away, catching a glimpse of London lighting up in the deepening twilight. It was so beautiful from up here. What a view. Mary left, already forgetting the limp corpse slumped on the floor.

She returned to the maintenance room, and dropped another block of C4 at the panel. She climbed down, well past the maintenance corridor, down and down. She was fit, she had no qualms about the thirty floors below her in the ventilation shaft. She paused once in a while, to stick a block of C4 to the wall from the small pack at the base of her back. This was all unnecessary. She had left no trace of herself behind. No, this was for Death, the progression of her plan. CAM Tower was one of the largest and most recognizable buildings in London, and multiple explosions would most definitely make a statement. The central air shaft was well away from populated areas, so she had minimal concerns about innocents. Mary climbed down to the fifth floor, where the shafts all split out and up. There she found the last access panel, and entered. This was how she had originally entered the building. The public had access to these levels, and she had left her street clothes in the main maintenance room. She quickly covered up her tac-gear, and exited the room. The black hat obscured her bright hair, the rim pulled low. Her long coat covered her completely, thick enough to hide the outlines of weapons. She made her way down to the main lobby, passing the other security guard on his way up the escalator. She smiled, guessing correctly that he had decided to stay and flirt longer with the barista.

Just as she hit the main lobby, she reached under her coat, and pressed the switch. Great, deep tremors shook the building. _BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM. _Mary reacted like everyone else, looking up as the ceiling shook, the fire alarms went off, and as the lights flickered and the room fell dark. She ran with the crowd, outside and into the street. There she kept running, disappearing into the milling crowd, the panicked screams and shouts covering the sound of a car starting down the alley she was heading for. She never looked back, never looked up, as the top levels of CAM Tower erupted in flame, lighting the London skyline like a torch. Mary got in the black car, and it pulled out, vanishing into the streets.

* * *

><p>Molly was tired. It had been such a long day, and the day before hadn't made things any easier. Lestrade had told her what Sherlock had learned about Mary, and that she was supposedly in league with a disciple of Moriarty.<p>

She shivered, as any mention of that man terrified her. He had swept her off her feet, romanced her and seduced her. All to get to Sherlock. Molly had never been used so callously in her life, and it made her still feel dirty in some way. Stained. Molly knew better, she truly did, but she had trouble removing the injury he left. He had been so deliberately perfect, just what she thought she wanted.

Molly was closing down the lab, turning off instruments and making sure no notes were left out. The television was on in the office, and she would turn it off when she went for her purse. The night had gotten dark quickly, and the lab was filling up with shadows. She took one last look around, and went to the office door.

The news was on, and Molly stopped in dismay. There was an aerial shot of a burning building, a skyscraper. Flames engulfed the top floor, and at regular intervals down the length of the building, black smoke billowed out. As if it was burning from the inside too. The tower was barely recognizable, but she could see enough to know it was CAM Tower.

"Oh my God!" She breathed out, a hand covering her mouth. Was it terrorists? Arson?

Molly was absorbed, and she didn't see the shadow moving behind her, the silhouette of a taller woman at her shoulder.

"What a sight. I love a fire in autumn. Takes me back to holidays as a child." The voice said at her shoulder, and Molly screamed. She turned and backed away, staring at the woman who had suddenly appeared from nowhere.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" Molly asked, frightened by the woman. She was lovely, tall and slim and had an aura of grace. Her hair was long, braided back away from her face and trailing down her back. It was her eyes that made Molly afraid. Eyes that reminded her of a monster.

"My name isn't important. I haven't used it in so long that I believe I have forgotten it, really. You may call me Death, dear. A foolish name given to me by foolish men. So easily impressed by blood and destruction." The woman named Death smiled, and Molly felt a chill race down her spine. She was in danger, every instinct telling her to run. The other woman was between her and the door, and Molly had a feeling that she would not be able to win in a fight.

"What do you want?" Molly asked, her voice nothing but a whisper now. Death was still watching the news, the light from the fires on the screen dancing across her delicate features. Her eyes were lit from within with a different kind of fire, and Molly drew in a breath. Those eyes, she knew those eyes. The darkness was complete in the lab, but for the television. A heavy quiet was building, the air waiting for something to happen.

"I want you, dear." Death's eyes caught hers, and Molly locked up in terror. Her voice was strangled, and she felt a sick tension soak into her bones. _Her eyes, Oh God, she has his eyes!_

Molly's eyes widened in recognition, and Death nodded as she saw the other woman make the connection. Molly was shaking her head, and she tried to deny what every instinct in her body was screaming at her.

"You have his eyes." Molly stammered, and she gulped as Death grinned in delight.

Molly felt the world closing in on her, and she hardly felt the sharp blow to her temple that knocked her out. Death caught the slight woman as she started to fall, her weight easily managed. A larger shadow moved behind her in the doorway, and Death nodded. It peeled itself away from the other shadows, and Death passed the unconscious Dr Hooper over to one of her guards. He lifted her up, being careful when Death narrowed her eyes at him. The man and Dr Hooper disappeared into the shadows, and Death took one last look at the television.

"Well done Mary." Death said, and walked into the darkness.

The lab settled, the air still. Only the flames from the television gave light in the quiet room, and Molly's coat hung forlornly on the peg by the door.


	26. The Other Holmes' Heart

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me. **

**Please enjoy, and review if the mood takes you. I had fun writing this one, exploring the beginnings of a different relationship is a challenge.**

**And a HUGE thank you to all the readers, reviewers, followers. This story is at 10.9k views even as I'm posting this. Thank you. I am overwhelmed by the welcome this story has received. Thank you.**

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><p><strong>C<strong>**hapter Twenty Six**

"_**The Other Holmes' Heart"**_

Mycroft Holmes was rarely surprised by anything. His brother was really the only one who could do it these days, as the rest of the world was so predictable. He could see the motives, the hollow gestures of humanity, seeing the actions of others before they thought to make them, and it left him cold. Mycroft cared only for his work, and his family. His family came only after the work, and many times Sherlock had stumbled into it, foolishly combining the two. It seemed to be his curse, for Sherlock to forever intertwine himself in the affairs of England, and in his brother's business. So it was no surprise when trouble came looking for his brother, it dragged the rest of the world in too. But Mycroft had found himself surprised by Dr Watson, a man whom he had thought neatly figured out and labeled.

Mycroft sat at his desk, preparing to leave London for his country estate. There had been no progress from the searches for Moran or Mary. They had searched for the last two days, and the events from last night had made it very clear that Lady Moran and Mary would only be found if they wanted to be.

Somehow they had evaded the CCTV feeds, and gone unseen by the surveillance teams he had following his brother and Dr Watson. Frustration made Mycroft grimace briefly, before he stamped it down. He had kept his cool as best he could when Detective Inspector Lestrade had informed him that two snipers had breached the safety net he had in place, and threatened his brother and the doctor. Mycroft had sent reinforcements as fast as possible, and the men who had been on duty last night had found themselves reassigned to very unpleasant tasks that morning. Mycroft knew he shouldn't go, that his people would handle it well enough on their own, and that Lestrade was there to tell him exactly what was happening. But Mycroft had been unable to resist the urge to go, and word of his brother's mental state had been the deciding factor. Sherlock was supposedly out of control, highly emotional and destroying things at his flat.

Lestrade had texted him, saying that Sherlock had injured himself in the midst of a breakdown, and that Dr Watson was tending to him. But that hadn't been enough for Mycroft; he had seen Sherlock break before over the years, and the results were always unpleasant, and usually involved hospital stays and restraints. He had expected to be walking into a scene of chaos, and instead found himself greeted by a calm Detective Inspector, who had waxed poetic on the merits of living with a doctor. Dr Watson had controlled his brother, treated his injuries, and then tucked him into bed like a recalcitrant toddler. To then see the doctor after his arrival at the flat in a serene and perfectly calm state was unexpected. Mycroft knew from experience that John Watson could handle his brother, but he had never expected the doctor to be able to handle Sherlock when he was completely out of control. And to then be politely dismissed as if he was a guest who had over stayed his welcome was even more surprising.

Mycroft had swallowed his protests, and followed the man from Scotland Yard out of the flat. Lestrade had waited for him outside on the curb, and Mycroft had found himself staring at the police officer. Mycroft knew that Lestrade cared for his brother, and a part of him appreciated it, as it meant the detective inspector would go farther in his efforts to take care of Sherlock. But Mycroft was wondering in part why he cared; most people saw Sherlock as a dangerous entity, necessary only for his skills, to be promptly forgotten once he was no longer needed. To be held at arm's length, and never welcomed closer. Yet Lestrade had run to Sherlock with all haste when informed he was in danger, and then had stuck around in the midst of an emotional and mental breakdown because he was worried. Those were not the actions of a man ordered to look out for a sociopath out of duty, but the actions of a friend, with emotional motivations.

"Don't worry about Sherlock, John's got him well sorted." Lestrade had said, lighting up a cigarette, the light from the flame briefly illuminating his eyes, bright and clear. "John didn't even blink, impressive as hell really. Man woke up to be told he'd had snipers painting on him with lasers, and his mate goes off his rocker, and John is calm as can be, hardly a feather ruffled. Sherlock cut his hand up in a nasty way, glass sticking out of it and everything. John didn't even act upset. Man's covered in his lover's blood, and he's as mellow as a man reading the paper."

"I thought for certain Sherlock was going to have to be restrained, or that John would have to drug him to get him under control. All he did was have Sherlock lean on him, and your brother passed out all on his own." Lestrade had flicked some ashes away, and finally noticed that Mycroft had been staring at him in most peculiar way.

Mycroft had been listening to the police officer, but it took him a moment to realize that Lestrade had stopped speaking, and was staring back at him. Mycroft had heard the concern, the affection, and dare he say love in the other man's voice as he described the actions of his little brother, and the indomitable doctor. Mycroft couldn't stop himself from asking, the question slipping out half formed and unwanted.

"Why do you care for him so much?" Mycroft had asked, his uncertainty clear in his voice, his confusion.

Lestrade choked, coughing, smoke coming out around his hand. Lestrade had looked at him, eyes wary before he answered.

"Your brother? I care because he's worth it." Lestrade answered, simply, without hesitation.

Mycroft had nodded, he had expected that answer.

"Yes, his consulting work is invaluable. I see." Mycroft had nodded at the police officer, and turned to his car where it was waiting for him on the curb.

"No, you don't. I care about Sherlock because he is worth it. The work he does doesn't factor into it for me. Man's my friend." Lestrade had cast him a look, and ground his cigarette out on the pavement with his toe. "Goodnight, Mr. Holmes."

Lestrade had turned, and walked off down the street, waving once to the guards parked behind his silver BMW. He had gotten in, and driven away, with Mycroft standing where he had left him.

Mycroft had gotten into his car, his driver pulling away from Baker Street without having to be told. Mycroft felt out of sorts, like he used to when his mother would scold him as a child for tormenting Sherlock. Mycroft had sat in silence the entire drive back to his townhouse, and it wasn't until he was back in his bedroom, preparing to go to bed, that he found his mobile in his hand. The text had almost sent itself, his mind screaming at him to stop. But he had sent it, in denial as much as he was aware of what he was doing.

**Goodnight, Detective Inspector.-MH**

It was as close to an apology as he could get. He somehow felt like he needed to offer one. He hadn't gotten a reply, and he had checked. Mycroft felt like a fool for checking. He never felt like a fool, and feeling like one in this instance had left him even more disconcerted.

"Sir?"

Anthea stood at the door to his office, snapping Mycroft out of his memories of the night before. She had a small smile on her lovely face, one hand raised, holding the door open.

"Yes, my dear?" Mycroft asked, putting down his mobile, unaware that he had picked it up while trapped in his thoughts. He pretended that he hadn't been staring at it, willing it to chirp at him, and gave Anthea his complete attention.

Mycroft only ever called her thus when they were alone. Anthea had been with him the longest of all his aides, putting up with his cold ways and ruthless attitudes as if they were nothing. She had swiftly graduated from being an aide to being _his_ aide. He relied on her for almost everything, and he struggled not to let her see his dependency. He tried, but knew she saw through him. Thus he acknowledged her place in his life with this one endearment, never straying further. She returned the affection, and only she said 'sir' to him like that, as if he were the only one deserving of being called that. Anthea would smile at him, her eyes sparkling and her lips curved with the barest traces of amusement.

"The cars are ready. We can leave for the country house at your discretion." She said, and Mycroft nodded in reply.

He stood, and grabbed his bag and mobile on the way out. She held the door as he passed, falling into to step behind him down the long hall, out to the front. The house was already dark in preparation for their departure, and the sound of Anthea's heels on the marble floor echoed off the wood walls. His bags and hers had already been packed up by his staff, and the escort car was waiting behind his Jaguar. Night had fallen, and the city was quiet. He waited beside her on the curb as his valet loaded their bags, Anthea checking her mobile for last minute alerts before they left. Mycroft gave his bag over to be loaded up as well, and he froze when he heard Anthea gasp.

"Sir! There's been an incident!" She looked at him, dismay and fear clear in her eyes, and she stepped close, grabbing onto his arm.

"What has happened?" He asked, not at all bothered by her touch.

"There's reports of an explosion at CAM Tower, the top levels are engulfed in flames." She said, and just as she finished speaking, Mycroft's mobile erupted in a flurry of alerts, and began to ring loudly.

He answered, and stood listening to the alert being broadcast simultaneously to all high ranking MI6 members. It was an automated alert, and gave no more information this early on than Anthea had given him. He turned to Anthea, and caught her attention.

"Go back inside, recall everyone. We won't be leaving." He kept the mobile to his ear, as more updates rolled in. Anthea nodded briskly, and let go of her grip on his arm, and all but ran back into the house, through the still open door. He watched as she disappeared down the long hallway, going to the bunker.

* * *

><p>She texted as she ran, sending out commands on her mobile to recall the teams that had gone back to headquarters after Mycroft had dismissed them earlier. Her heart was racing in her chest, and she feared her night was about to get a lot more exciting than a lovely ride through the countryside with her boss. Explosions never meant anything good, no matter what you did for a living.<p>

Anthea went as fast as she dared in her high heels, navigating the long halls of Mycroft's home confidently in the dark. She didn't even bother stopping to turn on the lights, knowing her way well. She rounded the sharp corner in the hall, near the rear of the house, just as in went down to the lower level. She was going so fast she didn't see the shadow detach itself from the wall, the flash of wild eyes in the low light.

Anthea fell fast, caught from behind in a choke hold around her neck, a hand clamped down on her mouth. Anthea struggled, and she fought, clawing at the arm wrapped around her. She tried her best, fear giving her strength. Her mobile fell to the floor, clattering down the first few steps of the stairs that led to the bunker. Its glow on the stairs was the last thing she saw.

Anthea collapsed, her attacker dragging her out of the hall, into the shadows of an empty room. The window at the back was open, the cold night air blowing the curtains, moonlight beginning to streak in across the floor. The newly risen moon was so bright it lit the features clearly of the disciple, her eyes glittering in triumph. A larger shadow waited next to sill, and accepted the weight of the unconscious woman easily. He carried her over his shoulder as he leapt into the back garden, the smaller wraith of the disciple following.

Death didn't bother with closing the window, nor did she care that Mycroft Holmes was just on the other side of the house. She followed her bodyguard through the darkness of the garden, footsteps sure in the black. Their limo was parked in the alley behind the townhouse, engine running. Death opened the door, and her man got in, gently lowering Mycroft's woman to the floor next to the still form of Dr Hooper. Death had sent her regular car ahead to the estate earlier with Sargent Donovan, and she had taken the limo to grab her remaining two targets.

Death got in, and the limo purred deeply as it pulled away. She knew Anthea's absence would be noticed soon, but she had accounted for this, and had a vehicle waiting for them at the designated place, where they would switch out before heading to the estate. She knew well the streets of London, and the coverage of the CCTV cameras. She had avoided detection for days, and she had done it with ease. No one would be able to trace them.

She smiled, content. Mary had texted once she had made it safely back to the estate, and Death was satisfied. The first night's work of her plan had gone well. Mary had her revenge and secured further protection from Magnussen, London was put on notice, and Death had stolen away the women dearest to the hearts of her opponents. The only men she need worry about were the Holmes brothers, and their very dependable police officer. She now had them all by their heartstrings, and soon she would strike for the very heart itself.

John Watson would soon be hers, as well.

* * *

><p>Mycroft swore under his breath, and stalked down the hall to his bunker. He flicked on the lights as he passed, not being as sure as Anthea was in the dark. Mycroft tried calling her again, and he thought he heard something ahead of him. He felt a cold breeze whip out from one of the side rooms, and was about to look when he heard a mobile chirping around the corner.<p>

Mycroft rounded the corner, about to head down the stairs, when he stopped in surprise. He had thought he heard someone's mobile, but there was no one there. Mycroft still had the mobile to his ear, and it was ringing out. He looked down the stairs, and he saw something shining in the shadows.

That chirping came again, and the light was stronger too. Mycroft felt himself grow cold, fingers tingling as adrenaline coursed through his veins. He stepped down, slowly, his legs barely keeping him upright as he stood over the mobile on the stairs. Anthea's mobile. He bent down, pocketing his mobile, silencing hers. He looked down the hall, the lights still off, the bunker door still locked and dormant. She hadn't even made it to the bunker.

_The window! The cold breeze!_ Mycroft ran for the first time in years, leaping back up the stairs and grabbing the wall to round the corner. He ran into the dark room that looked out into the garden. The window was open, the cold wind ripping into the curtains and spiraling into the rest of the house. The moon was bright, so very bright that he squinted against the light as he ran to the window. Mycroft could see nothing, the garden a twisting maze of moonlit plants and deepening shadows.

He leaned out, hands on the cold sill, and looked down. Two sets of footprints, one of large man, his feet imprinted deeply in the damp earth beneath the window. The other was a woman's, wearing combat boots and moving swiftly. The man had been carrying extra weight. He had been carrying Anthea. Mycroft felt his heart surge into his throat, blood roaring in his ears.

Mycroft was in shock, he couldn't think, he couldn't breathe. The only thing he could was move on autopilot, let habit tell him what to do. But his habit was to reach for Anthea, let her carry out his will, to fix things for him. Mycroft wanted to scream, his emotions wreaking havoc for the first time in decades. He knew she was long gone; he stood and stared out into the night, the cold moonlight bright in his eyes. Mycroft fumbled for his mobile, and pulled it out. He stared at it, having almost forgotten how to use it.

_Call him, call him call him …. _Mycroft hit the speed dial, and held the mobile to his ear. It was ringing, and he waited for that voice. The one that would pull him back.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade. What do you need, sir?"

* * *

><p>John was making supper when Mrs. Hudson came upstairs, and he was about to ask her to stay and join them when she ignored him, and went straight for the television. She turned it on, and backed away. John walked to her side, and he stood there in shock, watching the burning tower, the destruction wrought in the heart of London.<p>

"Sherlock!" John called, and he heard his detective stir from the bedroom. "Sherlock!"

"What? I'm right here, there's no need to yell!" Sherlock grumbled, his blue robe billowing out behind him has he stomped into the room. He stopped at John's shoulder, gaze captured by the fires on the screen.

Sherlock stood taller, all weariness wiped from his face, eyes went bright and icy. Sherlock reached out, and turned up the volume. A reporter's voice came out, clearly from the helicopter that circled around the burning building.

"_An explosion ripped through the top levels of CAM Tower earlier in the evening. Several witnesses claim to have heard up to five separate explosions, and reports are coming in of multiple fires spreading throughout the tower. We have unconfirmed reports of dozen of casualties, no word on any fatalities as of yet. We cannot confirm if this is the result of terrorism, or if this was some sort of gas leak disaster."_

"_We cannot confirm whether or not the building's owner, Charles Augustus Magnussen, was in his private flat at the top of CAM Tower when the fires started. Witnesses said that the top floor of the tower exploded prior to burning."_

The reporter droned on, repeating the same information over and over. Sherlock reached out and muted the television, and John put a hand on Mrs. Hudson's shoulder.

Sherlock pulled out his mobile, and hit the speed dial. John watched him, rubbing Mrs. Hudson's shoulder reassuringly as she watched the news. John figured he was calling Mycroft.

"Mycroft- I assume you're aware that…. What?" Sherlock stopped talking, whatever his brother was saying enough to interrupt him. Sherlock's eyes went glacial, and John felt a wave of unease sweep across his heart at the look on Sherlock's face. "I'm coming."

"We need to go, now." Sherlock didn't wait for John's reply, he turned for the bedroom, throwing off his robe as he sprinted down the short hall.

"Is it the bombing at CAM Tower?" John asked, reaching for his boots, glad he was already dressed, as Sherlock was getting dressed faster than he'd ever seen him do it before. He picked up his gun from the nightstand, checking it was still loaded, an extra magazine in the holster. Sherlock was dressed in record time, tearing past John, the doctor hard on his heels. Mrs. Hudson watched them grab their coats, and John smiled at her before he followed Sherlock out of the flat.

Sherlock tore out of the flat, just as a black Jaguar roared up in front of them. John was expecting to see Anthea as they opened the door and got in. She wasn't there, just one of the regular drivers. The second the door was shut, Mycroft's man hit the accelerator, and the car leapt away from Baker Street.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" John asked, adjusting the gun in his waistband. Sherlock looked paler than usual, and whatever it was that Mycroft had said to him had shaken him.

"Anthea has been taken." Sherlock said, words clipped. "From inside my brother's house."

"What?" John was in shock. For someone to get to an MI6 operative while in one of the safest homes in Britain was unbelievable.

"Mycroft asked me to come." Sherlock said, and his voice betrayed him. Uncertainty laced with confusion. For Mycroft to ask, not order, was rare. Very rare. Yet Sherlock knew who was responsible. And his heart iced over, resolve hardening his core, stripping away his emotions.

"Death has her." Sherlock said.

* * *

><p>Sherlock jumped from the car before it even finished stopping, running through the front door of his brother's house. Police cars and black government vehicles crowded the street in front of the older Holmes' home. He ignored the MI6 agents, the police officers, everyone. He knew John was behind him, within arm's reach. Sherlock dodged and weaved around the people stupid enough not to get out of his way, as he headed down the long hall.<p>

Lestrade saw him coming, as he was standing in the doorway of the rear room where Anthea's kidnappers had taken her out of the house. The rooms were all lit, officers looking for evidence, taking pictures.

"Where is he?" Sherlock demanded, as Lestrade stopped him from running past with a hand on his chest.

"He's in here. One sec Sherlock. Mycroft…" Lestrade paused, and dropped his hand away at Sherlock's look. "Mycroft called me just as it happened. He didn't sound….. He didn't sound right."

Lestrade looked over his shoulder, his face a mix of sympathy and something else. Something like pain. "Go gently, Sherlock."

Sherlock paused, eyes searching Lestrade's face for clues to his brother's state. He didn't see what he needed, the Inspector was looking deeper in to the room, his concentration locked on the other Holmes. Sherlock moved past him, looking for his brother. John followed Sherlock, the doctor casting Lestrade a sympathetic look before entering the room.

Sherlock zeroed in on Mycroft, where his brother was standing near the open window. He was looking out into the garden, the wind blowing strongly into the room. Mycroft didn't pay any attention to the people working around him; they all knew better than to ask him to move. Useless officers were taking pictures, notes. All to catalogue what Mycroft already knew. The evidence had been very clear, after all. Anyone with a brain could see what he did. Sherlock went to his side, making forensic techs scuttle away nervously. Sherlock looked out the window and down, much as Mycroft had done earlier. He saw exactly what his brother had.

"They didn't leave her here, Mycroft. She was alive." Sherlock said, staring out into the garden, standing much like his brother was. Mycroft didn't even look at him, he kept looking out into the night, where she had disappeared.

"I sent her back in here." Mycroft stated, voice emotionless. His eyes were bright, the moon still shining intensely through the open window, its light scattering across the floor. "We were on the way to the country house, when the alerts came through. I sent her back in here to…."

His voice faded away, and Mycroft stopped himself, holding tightly to his control. Sherlock shifted, moving closer, his shoulder almost touching his brother's. Mycroft let him, not minding that his little brother was close to showing brotherly sentiment.

"They were waiting for the best chance, brother. If they hadn't been able to get her here, it would have been at the other house." Sherlock told his brother, knowing as he did that Mycroft wouldn't heed him, that he would blame himself if he wanted. Mycroft nodded, the barest dip in his chin. Sherlock just moved half a step closer, lightly touching now, and Mycroft relaxed, just slightly. Sherlock saw out of the corner of his eye, and stayed where he was. Offering comfort to his brother was difficult, as neither man knew how to handle it.

John watched them both, baffled by them as usual. How hard was it to reach out, to hug one's sibling? Admittedly, not every family was the same, and the Holmes brothers were the most unusual of them all. John kept back, within hearing distance, but not intruding. Mycroft was obviously upset, as much as John had ever seen him, really. He was paler than usual, and his superior attitude and sarcastic airs were gone, stripped away by shock and fear. Mycroft may not know he was scared, but John saw the signs clearly.

John looked back at Lestrade, who was still standing in the doorway, mobile to his ear, eyes locked on Mycroft. He looked equally impatient, and concerned. John figured the concern was for Mycroft, as John could easily see the regard the Inspector held for the elder Holmes. It was in every glance Lestrade tossed at the MI6 agent. John marveled at it, that no one else seemed to see it. It was if Lestrade didn't even know, really. John filed that away for later, wondering what it would take to prod the Iceman into opening up to a normal human being. John shook his head, knowing it would most likely take a miracle.

Lestrade dropped the mobile away from his ear, redialing, cursing in frustration. John looked one last time at the brothers, still standing by the window, silent. He walked to Lestrade, who seemed to be having trouble getting ahold of someone, considering how many times he was hitting redial.

"Greg? Problem?" John asked quietly, keeping his voice down. If there was a problem, it was best not to let the brothers hear it unless it was relevant to Anthea.

"I've called and texting Donovan all afternoon, since Sherlock called earlier today. I got ahold of her as she was leaving an interview with a witness, told her to come back in. I assumed she went home instead, as she never came back to the Yard. But she always answers if I call. She hasn't even texted me back." Lestrade was worried, his face pale, and he was chewing on his lower lip as he hit Redial again, listening to the mobile ring unanswered in his ear.

"You haven't heard back from her?" John felt his stomach drop, his hands go cold. Anthea had been taken, and now Donovan wasn't answering her boss. No matter how John may feel about her, he didn't want her hurt. The world of Sherlock Holmes never offered up pure coincidence. This was not good.

"I'm sending an officer to her place." Lestrade muttered, canceling the call and dialing a new number.

John felt Sherlock come up behind him, a change in how the air felt, a warmth in the cold air. John turned, his lover at his shoulder, looking at Lestrade. Mycroft had followed, his gaze locked on the Inspector. John reached out a hand to Sherlock, his detective catching hold without looking. Lestrade was sending a patrol car to her flat, and would know in a few minutes if Donovan was home.

They all waited, standing silently, as the minutes ticked by. The other people in the room worked around them, knowing better than to interrupt, to intrude. There was a gloom hanging about them, noticeable to everyone. They just stood, waiting for Lestrade's mobile to ring, for Donovan to call or text, to apologize for not answering. Maybe she fell asleep on her couch, having intended to get right back up after resting for a minute. Or she was out on a date, not answering on purpose.

Those were the thoughts running through Lestrade's mind, though he knew better. Hope was trying to tell him to be optimistic, but every instinct of his was screaming that she was in danger. No one moved, John gripping Sherlock's hand tightly. Mycroft moved up to the police officer, as if drawn by gravity, glaring at the mobile too.

They jumped when it began to ring, Lestrade fumbling to answer. He brought the mobile to his ear, barking out a "What?!" before listening.

"What do you mean she isn't there?" Lestrade snarled, fear and panic twisting his voice. He listened for a moment more, before slowly dropping the mobile down. His face was white, and his hand shook as he ended the call.

"They talked to her neighbor, Sally never went back to her flat after leaving for the Yard early this morning." Lestrade stiffened up, and started dialing another number. Mycroft reached out, catching the Inspector's hand, stopping him.

"I have a faster way to find her, to see if we need worry. Come with me." Mycroft turned the Inspector, pushing him out the door and down towards the bunker. John and Sherlock followed, John shocked by Mycroft's willingness to touch another human.

Mycroft guided Lestrade downstairs, and opened the bunker's door. They all stepped through, the room fully lit, MI6 agents back at their desks, most of them monitoring the crisis at CAM Tower, and a few were searching through the CCTV feeds that watched over Mycroft's neighborhood.

Mycroft went to a station, and whispered briefly to one of his aides. The man blinked once before turning to his computer, typing in commands so fast his fingers were a blur. The video feeds all changed, switching to views of Donovan's street, and outside the Yard. It was from earlier in the day, the sun still up, shining brightly before the rapidly moving clouds swept across it. The aide moved the time, speeding things up, and they could see the computer freeze an image, outside Scotland Yard. A green box outlined the frame of a woman, stepping from a cab in front of Scotland Yard.

"That's Donovan! She did come back to the Yard…. But what…" Lestrade stopped, as the video zoomed in, clearly showing Donovan outside the Yard, and walking into another woman dressed in a long black coat. The video held them all captive, as they watched Donovan waver on her feet, reaching down to her side as if going for her weapon. It was gone, having quickly been snatched by the woman in the black coat. Donovan's face went rigid in fear, eyes wide, and she seemed to recognize the woman in front of her. Suddenly she was bracketed by another person, a man who wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her up as she passed out while standing. A town car had appeared behind them, and the man carefully put Donovan in the car, her body limp.

No one noticed, no one tried to stop the kidnapping happening in broad daylight in front of Scotland Yard. The woman in black turned, walking forward a few feet, seeming to stare directly at them, her hand lifting away her hat. Her long brown braid tumbled free, and the computer zoomed in on her face, clearly showing the beautiful features of Sybil Moran. She smiled directly at the camera, and nodded once. Her eyes were dark and burning with what looked to be satisfaction, and her smile had a feral edge to it, for all its beauty. She then got in the car, and it was lost in the afternoon traffic.

"Death has Donovan." Sherlock said, knocking them all free from the dread and shock that had held them as they watched the very smooth operation unfold in front of them. Death had kidnapped a police officer in the heart of London, without once drawing a glance or a question from anyone.

Lestrade looked stricken, and he gripped his mobile tightly, like he was willing Donovan to call him, to tell him she was okay. Mycroft was watching him, his face as white as the Inspector's. Mycroft was standing at the policeman's shoulder, and Lestrade wavered on his feet, swaying slightly, towards the taller man.

"Sally's tough. Vicious. She'll fight." Lestrade mumbled to himself, and looked up at the image of her frozen in time on the screen.

Sherlock pulled away from John, pacing. His eyes narrowed, and his steps were fast. He would look to the screens, then back down to the ground. He had his back to them all when he stopped, head coming up. He'd had a thought, and he moved back around so fast John feared he gave himself whiplash.

"Check for similar activity outside of Bart's Hospital." He ordered, his voice echoing in the bunker, deep and ominous. "John, call Molly Hooper."

John's heart jumped in sudden realization, and he fumbled for his mobile, looking for Molly's number, and dialing, the call on speaker. It rang and rang, before going to voicemail. Molly's sweet voice came through, telling them to leave a message. Her voice dropped out on a small laugh, and John ended the call. Silence hung heavy in the air, John looking to Sherlock.

Sherlock was impassive, eyes as hard as diamonds, his demeanor radiating lethal anger. He was watching as the CCTV feeds from outside of Bart's were pulled up, and the multiple views ran on all the screens. The day went by on fast forward, the sun setting swiftly.

"Stop! There, the bottom image. Bring it up on the larger screen." Sherlock pointed, to a darker video. The image was laden with shadows and the light was minimal. Once it was on the larger screen, the aide enhanced it, and the shadows dulled out to grey.

The video showed the back service entrance, and there was a shadow of a dark car just outside the doors. The door opened, light spilling out, illuminating the figures who walked out, one of them carrying the limp form of a woman. Her long hair was pulled back in tail, spilling over the shoulder of the man carrying her. Molly's pretty face was briefly lit by the light from inside the building, and the man carrying her got into the limo waiting for them. The smaller figure, the one that moved with a predatory grace, paused in the light, her shadow stretching out across the alley. She looked up, as she had before, and she gazed directly into the camera. She knew where it was, with unerring accuracy. Death smiled, and this smile was all violent mania; all previous smiles had held at least a hint of decorum. This smile sent shivers running down John's spine. He knew who that smile was for.

Death knew, she knew, that they would piece it together, and too late for them to stop her. She smiled now for Sherlock.

"She took Donovan earlier in the afternoon, then Molly and Anthea within an hour of each other. She had this planned, exceedingly well. She has watched the women for days. This has been her plan all along." Sherlock said, and Mycroft and Lestrade pulled themselves from their mutual misery to look to the detective.

Sherlock looked at the aide, and the man shrank back from the detective's stony eyes.

"Can you track them at all?"

The aide shook his head, and stammered out a nervous negative.

"She knows where all the blind spots are, where all the vague coverage is. She either switches vehicles, or uses some other method of evading the cameras until she's out of city limits. We've even tracked decoy cars that eventually disappear as well. Her people are well-trained, sir."

"Sherlock. Find her." Mycroft ordered his brother, a thin crack in his armor showing, despair leaking out into the air around him. John couldn't tell if Mycroft meant Death, or Anthea. From his face, he most likely meant both. Lestrade was shaken free from his own despair, and he lifted a hand to Mycroft's shoulder. The elder Holmes didn't even react, just looked at his brother beseechingly.

John stood in the cold underground bunker, the room that held such power over the whole of England. Here so many lives could be affected, with just a few commands typed into a computer. It was here they were rendered useless, impotent to the skill and cunning of a single woman. She had stabbed directly at their hearts, and claimed first blood.

London was burning, and they knew Death had only just begun.

Sherlock moved to John's side, grabbing his hand in a grip so tight it hurt.

"She will come for you next, John."


	27. Say Goodbye

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**WARNING: VIOLENCE. And extreme sadness.**

**Read, enjoy, review. And thank you.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Twenty Seven<strong>

"_**Say Goodbye"**_

Molly woke with a start, her heart in her throat, terror coursing through her veins. The floor was cold, her body shivering in the early morning light. Her face was cold from the floor, and she lifted her head. There was a shoe next to her face, a black high heel, shiny and expensive. Molly stared at it, wondering how a shoe got in her bed, when she was certain she'd never owned one that looked that nice.

There was a moaning coming from off to the side, and Molly sat up, hand to her head, looking for the source of the noise. She looked around her in confusion, unable to understand why she wasn't at home, in her bed. She was in a very large room, the light grey and weak. She had the impression of wood, a vast space above her, and white ghost like shapes in the distance. Her eyes refused to work right, her head was pounding in time with her heart. Molly groaned, suddenly feeling sick to her stomach, dizzy. She put a hand to her temple, and pulled it away, blood smeared on her palm.

It was the blood that brought back the flood of memories, the night before. She had been confronted by a nightmare, a woman with the eyes of a monster.

"Molly?" It was a whisper, spoken from a voice that sounded weak and dry. Molly sat up further, looking down to her other side. Sally Donovan was sitting up against the bars of their cage, her head braced by her hands. Her curly hair was a wild mess, and she was pale, which was a frightening look on her naturally dark skin. Molly stared, unable to understand why she and Donovan were in a large metal cage in a very big ballroom.

"Sally? Are you alright? What happened?" Molly whispered, nervous as her voice echoed in the large room. She dragged herself over to the other woman, her legs shaking, refusing to work right. The exertion made her head hurt worse, and she gasped, grabbing the solid metal bars of their cage for support. Sally looked ill, and Molly could see no signs of injury, nothing similar to her head wound. She knew from years of looking at mangled corpses that she had been hit, very hard, in the head, and she most likely had a concussion. Molly reached out to Sally, who looked like she was going to get ill.

"She got me, I couldn't move. Greg….. Called me back…. She got me there." Sally tried to explain, and she moaned, as talking hurt her head. "Think she drugged me."

"Sybil Moran? Is that who did it?" Molly whispered, putting her hand on the other woman's forehead. She was a little cold, and her eyes were focusing slowly. She was acting like she had a severe hangover, and Molly looked around their cage for a bucket, anything in case Sally decided to throw up.

It was then she noticed the other occupant, the owner of the very expensive black heel. She was laying on her stomach, long brown hair strewn across the floor, her suit wrinkled. Molly gasped, and crawled over to her, reaching a hand out to her shoulder, gently turning her onto her back.

"Oh dear God, Anthea?" Molly whispered, and she put her fingers to the woman's neck, looking for a pulse. She found it, nearly collapsing in relief. Her fingers traced the vague outline of bruises along the MI6 agent's neck. Anthea had been knocked out by a stranglehold, and her neck was bruising. It had been fast and hard, and she would most likely find it hard to talk. Molly hadn't seen Anthea for weeks, almost two months ago. She had stopped by to see Molly at St Bart's to tell her Sherlock was well, and was wrapping things up. That he should be home soon. Molly had been elated, and then swamped by guilt. She got to know that Sherlock was coming home, while John…

"Who is that?" Sally asked, her voice getting stronger. She seemed to be winning the fight with her rebellious stomach, and her color was coming back.

"It's Anthea. She's hurt, knocked out." Molly said, and she saw her lab coat tossed off to the side. Molly leaned over the prone woman, and snagged a corner of it. She balled it up, and put it under Anthea's head. Her pulse was strong, but Molly needed to check for more injuries. Surely a strangle hold wouldn't keep her under longer than Molly's blow to the head, or Sally's drugged state. Molly ran her hands through Anthea's hair, noticing it was far softer than hers. Anthea had no bumps, no blood. She hadn't been hit.

"Anthea? Can you hear me?" Molly asked, gently squeezing her shoulder. Nothing.

"Is she ok?" Sally slowly dragged herself over to them, her strength returning.

"I don't know, she isn't waking up." Molly said. She lifted her head quickly, the sudden movement making her temple throb. There was a noise behind them, outside the cage.

Sally stilled, her hands clenching into fists on her knees. Her eyes went bright with anger, and fear. Molly started to shake, and turned around, slowly. She kept Anthea behind her, the woman on the floor the most vulnerable of the three of them. Sally tried to stand, but her legs collapsed beneath the residual effects of the drugs.

A man was standing outside the cell, clad in black tactical gear, his bare head shaved down to the skin. He was large, well-muscled and scarred. His face was void of all emotion, and the gun on his hip drew Molly's attention. He didn't speak, just stared through the bars of their cage. He looked through Molly as if she wasn't a person, like she was a thing, an animal. No recognition that she was a frightened woman in a cage, who wanted nothing more than to go home. The sun was rising, and the room was getting brighter. Molly could see farther, and the vast space echoed with the silence, oppressive despite its beauty.

"Who the hell are you? Do you have any idea the shitstorm you've invited by kidnapping us?" Sally snarled, rage dripping from every word. She was glaring daggers, and she fought to stand. Molly reached out and caught her hand, keeping her down. "Oh brilliant idea, let's kidnap a police officer, Sherlock Holmes's lab partner and the personal aide to the most powerful man in Britain. Really smart."

He didn't answer, his hand resting casually on his gun. Molly shivered, and tightened her grip on Sally's hand. She wanted to speak, to tell Sally not to provoke him, but she couldn't get air into her lungs to form the words. Her eyes dropped to his other hand, and the bag he held. It was a plastic grocery bag, full of water bottles, and what looked like fruit.

He snapped free the strap holding his gun in its holster, the sharp noise making Molly jump. She held tighter to Sally, and the police woman gripped her hand back. Her face never lost its derision, but Molly felt her fear in her hands.

"What's wrong with her?" His voice was unexpected, rough. As if he wasn't used to talking to people. He vaguely motioned at Anthea, his face skeptical and cautious.

Molly struggled for words, as Donovan growled at the guard. She knew she should say something, Anthea may need help, more than Molly could give her.

"She hasn't… She won't wake up. I think something happened when she got grabbed." Molly stammered out, barely able to get the words out. "She needs help."

The guard's face finally twitched, with the faintest glimmer of annoyance, and something akin to nerves. He dropped the bag, and pulled his gun. Molly gasped, fearing she'd made a mistake. Donovan tensed, preparing to do something. Molly wanted to scream, but she couldn't. Fear was crawling around inside her stomach, making her feel ill. He brought the weapon up, and pointed it right at Donovan's face. Molly felt a sensation like cold water running through her muscles, convinced she was going to see Donovan die.

"Move back, both of you. Other side of the cage." He said, his intent to shoot sincere if they didn't do as he ordered. His eyes were empty of compassion, and Molly found herself pulling Donovan back, towards the far wall. Anthea was still out, limp, unaware. Donovan struggled against Molly, but the guard still had his weapon pointed at her face, and she went grudgingly. She moved in front of Molly, keeping the pathologist behind her, up against the wall.

The guard kept his gun aimed at Donovan, and with his other hand pulled out a set of keys, jiggling them one-handed until he found the one he wanted. Without once taking the weapon off Donovan, he approached the door to the cell, and inserted the key. He paused, and his eyes went to Anthea, still unresponsive on the floor. She hadn't moved, no reaction. He turned the key, the metal screeching slightly. He paused again, eyes locked on Anthea, but the gun was still trained on Donovan. Still Anthea made no reaction, and he seemed satisfied. He pulled open the door, and stepped in. Donovan tensed up, but the weapon was still pointing at her face, and she sat back.

He stepped in fully, his large frame and gun between them and the door to the cell. He stood over Anthea, and nudged her roughly in the ribs with his boot. She moved limply with the motion, and didn't respond. Donovan started to shake, and Molly wrapped her hands around the other woman's arms. The guard shifted his focus from Donovan down to Anthea, and he nudged her again. She must have made a small movement or response, because he suddenly had the gun pointed down at her. Molly wanted to scream, convinced he was going to shoot the woman as she lay helpless on the floor.

"Leave her alone!" Donovan snarled, and his eyes raised back to her, the gun still pointed down. His attention was split, and that's all Anthea needed.

She moved like the wind, faster than thought. Her body twisted on the floor, legs tangling with his, her hands raised up fast as a snake, locked on the gun. She kept moving, rotating on the floor, and he fell backwards, his own weight pulling the gun from his hands, and into Anthea's grasp. He fell, and Anthea brought her feet up under her, turning the gun around, her hands gripping it firmly, pointed straight into his face as she rose up over him. It was over in seconds, the large guard disarmed by the MI6 agent, who was very much all right, and her eyes were burning with righteous fury.

"Donovan!" Anthea snapped, and the cop surged to her feet, racing forward, one foot raised over the guard's head. She brought her heel down hard on his temple, his head hitting the solid wood floor with a sickening crack. Adrenaline had cleared away the last of the drugs, and left her shaking with anger.

He wasn't dead, his pulse still beat strongly in his neck, visible even to Molly, who was stuck in the corner against the wall, struck dumb by the last ten seconds. He wouldn't be getting up anytime soon.

"Get her up, we need to move." Anthea ordered, reaching down for the keys that had fallen to the floor. Donovan turned back to Molly, pulling her up roughly to her feet. Anthea stepped out of the cage, kicking off her high heels as she went, gun sweeping the room, eyes tracking everywhere, looking for movement. Donovan had Molly in a death grip, and dragged her out behind the agent.

Anthea led the way to the nearest door, weaving her way through the tables and shrouded furniture in the large room. Pressing her back against the wall next to it, she reached out a hand, and very slowly turned the handle. It was unlocked, and Anthea pulled only enough to crack the door open. Anthea looked through the thin space, holding her breath. Donovan kept Molly behind her, pressed against the wall on the other side of the door. Anthea waited, and heard nothing. She grabbed the door, intending to pull it open enough for them to sneak through. She held the gun up, and nodded at Donovan to get ready to move.

The shot exploded in the room, ricocheting like thunder. The gun spun from Anthea's hand, and she screamed, the wood of the door absorbing the bullet, splinters erupting like shrapnel from a bomb. Anthea clutched her hand to her chest, blood running between her fingers.

Donovan and Molly turned, and Molly bit back a scream of her own. Death, once known as Sybil Moran, stood behind them, the far door open. She was standing near the cage, her disabled guard at her feet. She had taken her shot from almost twenty-five feet away. She held a beast of a handgun in a grip that was flawless, her stance screaming lethality. The weapon looked far too big for the slim assassin, yet she handled it with ease. The black gear she wore gave her the look of a reaper, Death come for them at last. Her eyes were rabid, yet her face was empty of all thought and emotion. She emanated a level of rage that was beyond madness, from just her eyes.

Her men swept into the room behind her, from the same door she had used. Their weapons raised, over a dozen guns pointed at the three women. Anthea was breathing rapidly through her teeth, trying to stop the blood flow from her hand pressed to her chest. Death's men surrounded them, and the door at their backs opened, and Donovan and Molly found themselves held at point-blank range, two guards entering from the hall. A third guard grabbed Anthea, and threw her to the floor, his gun trained on her face, his boot on her stomach, holding her down. She groaned quietly as he pressed harder, and she stopped resisting.

"I was going to do this nicely, ladies." Death said, and she lowered her gun. "With a degree of civility, even."

Her men kept theirs aimed at the women, and Death looked down at her guard, the disabled one at her feet. She reached down, grabbed his collar, and single-handedly dragged his long form from the cell. She was tall and slim, but all muscle, and the ease with which she handled him was eerie. She pulled him towards the women, and as she passed, her men adjusted their aim, so that their line of fire would not endanger their mistress. She dropped him within feet of her prisoners, and they could hear him moaning, coming around. Death faced the women, her eyes burning like fire. Her black boot flashed out, cutting off his moans, pressing on his throat. He was choking, and her expression hadn't even changed. Not once had she shown any emotion on her face, just with those eyes…

"Since you have decided to be foolish, I am no longer playing nice." She fired without once taking her eyes from the three women. The large-caliber bullet destroyed the prone guard's head; blood, bone and brain matter exploding across the floor. Blood splashed up, droplets misting across her cheeks. Death didn't react at all, not caring she was covered in blood. The ruin of his skull sprayed onto Molly and Donovan's feet and lower legs, hot and wet. Molly screamed into Donovan's shoulder, closing her eyes too late to avoid seeing, and the police woman shuddered. Anthea looked on with a helpless expression, her eyes draining of rage at the sight. Death's men hadn't even flinched at the execution of one of their own, their obedience to her will absolute.

"Strip them down, and back into the cage. No more chances." Death holstered her gun, pulling her foot away from the corpse. "And clean this trash up."

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><p>It had been a full day since the women were kidnapped. Nearly twenty-four hours, and there was no sign, no whisper, no hint of where Death was hiding them.<p>

Mycroft had shaken himself from his shock, and with one terse command, his minions flew through London, tearing it apart. Every crumb of a clue was inspected, and tossed up the line for consideration. Every CCTV feed scrutinized, every email searched, and Mycroft hacked into the cell towers, attempting to track Death via GPS and texts. Nothing. Not a scent of a trail.

Sherlock had sent the word out to his Homeless Network, and the whole of the city knew before breakfast that Sherlock Holmes was hunting for someone. Villains scurried into their bolt holes, as Sherlock's network tore through the underbelly of the city. They sent back a constant stream of information, but none of it was helping. All it served was to make it clear that wherever Death was, she wasn't inside London.

Lestrade had alerted every precinct in the city that an officer had been kidnapped, and the news stations picked up the story. Donovan and Molly made the news, their pictures sharing airtime with the coverage of the destruction at CAM Tower. Police officers were on high alert, patrols scouring the city. Mycroft had refused to let Anthea's picture be released, so the only people who knew she was missing were Mycroft's, and Sherlock's.

The entire city knew to some degree that something was very wrong, from the housewife washing dishes, eyes on the telly, as she waited on the kids to come home from school, to the street beggar hunting in the Underground for an undiscovered lair.

All of London was looking for Death, and her three prisoners. The day wore on, and failure was chasing at the heels of the sun.

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><p>Sherlock didn't know what time it was, all he knew was that the lessening light was making it hard for him to see the maps strewn across the floor of the room he was using. Sherlock had commandeered one of the larger sitting rooms of his brother's house, and he had sent Mycroft's people out for maps of all of London, and the surrounding countryside.<p>

John was sleeping on a settee along the wall, one Sherlock had unceremoniously shoved out of the way. He had maps on his chest, one laying hallway across his face. Sherlock didn't even know when John had succumbed, so intent was he on finding the connections between Blackwood Chemical and Death. His intuition was screaming at him that there was something there, something important.

_I know she chose that place for a reason other than convenience. It means something to her. She has a connection to it, or Moriarty did. She does this all for him; to avenge his death. Never mind that he willingly took his own life, she needs to avenge him. _

_This is all very personal. She took Donovan from Lestrade, Anthea from Mycroft, and Molly from me. She corrected Moriarty's mistake by taking Molly, she knows Molly matters to me. She has both inspired us by taking the women, and crippled us. For all the resources at our disposal, even if we did find them, she would kill her prisoners if we made one move against her. She has every advantage, and she knows it. Why take them?... Ah, that's why. To hurt us. To hurt me. The more pain we feel, the greater her revenge._

_She has everything she needs, but for one thing. She doesn't have John yet. I know that's her endgame. She gets John, she kills me. I would Fall from any height to save him, and this time there will be no safety net. If she gets John, I am dead. She has had plenty of chances to capture John since my return, since Moran's arrest. John was on his own for a few days before he returned to Baker Street. Before he became my lover…._

_Why did she wait? I would've sacrificed myself for him regardless of the context of our relationship, why would she wait until we were together before starting this? Why not shoot me as I stepped out of my flat, or kill me with a car bomb? _

_She has had the advantage on me for years, not just since my Return. How does she want me to die?_

There was a ruffling of papers from the settee, and the maps that had been resting on John's face fell to the floor as the doctor moved in his sleep. Sherlock stopped his whirling thoughts, placing them away for the moment. The sight of John relaxed, sleeping, stole into his heart, stirring the emotion that John had taught him was love. Sherlock had known the touch of love before, but it was different with family. There was almost no need to mention it in one's family, it was something instinctively understood in some ways. Taken for granted as well, for that very reason. But what Sherlock felt for John was beyond that basic emotion of familial love, so far beyond the reach of words. Sherlock could not describe how he felt about John, other than to reduce it to the simplest form. Love.

He had tried that night that John had lost the fortune cookie bet, but Sherlock knew he hadn't done it justice. To just tell John he loved him seemed wrong, as if he were doing it a disservice, what he felt. When John had snapped in the park, the words had come flowing freely of their own accord, as if it were instinct. Sherlock felt in welling up in him now, the urge to protect, shelter his doctor, all stronger in him every day. Sherlock hadn't comprehended the depth for emotions humans were capable of, and it staggered him.

He quietly moved to John's side, and knelt beside the settee. Sherlock lowered himself down until he could look John comfortably in the face, his arm along John's side, his hand resting on his doctor's shoulder. John stirred, but didn't wake. His face rested on Sherlock's hand, as if he knew it was there, even in sleep. The fading light finally gave up, and the room fell into shadow. The hallway lights were on, and cast their light deep into the room, just shy of the settee where he knelt next to his doctor.

Sherlock heard people moving about the house, the marble and wood letting sound carry easily. Mycroft's and Lestrade's people had been in and out all day, and even with all the armed law enforcement surrounding them, Sherlock hadn't let John out of his sight once. Even when John had gone to the bathroom, Sherlock had prowled outside the door. John had merely raised a brow at him, and didn't fuss. Sherlock had been thankful; he couldn't handle the danger John was in if his doctor wasn't cooperating. Or at least allowing Sherlock to stalk him everywhere. The shift in their relationship somehow made it more enjoyable to be by each other's side, constantly. Sherlock may have complained in the past about needing to be left alone, to be at peace, but those moments were gone now. Gone since the instant he realized he had peace with John, and only John.

He felt that peace now, chasing away the worry, the frustration, the disturbing, nagging fear he felt for the very essential Molly Hooper. Sherlock had locked his fear away, refusing to feel it, letting his determination and anger fuel him instead. But now as he rested, he felt that fear for her come sneaking out into the light. Sherlock examined it, and let the peace John gave him exile it. He would do her no good if he was frightened, scared. She was strong, far stronger than even she knew. Sherlock saw it; in the years since the Fall it had grown. Molly would survive until he came for her. He would, and she only needed to make it until he did.

Sherlock was tired, but he refused to sleep. The respite he took for himself now was all he would allow himself.

There was a commotion out in the hall, running feet. Someone was shouting, and Sherlock stood rapidly, his movement waking John.

"What's going on?" John asked, just as a figure appeared in the doorway. It was one of Mycroft's aides, panting heavily from exertion.

"Sir, we need you downstairs, now." The aide didn't even wait, he turned and ran back the way he had come.

Sherlock ran after him, John behind him. They caught up to the aide at the bunker door, Sherlock impatiently shoving him to the side as the door opened.

"What is it? Did you find them?" Sherlock demanded of Mycroft, Lestrade at his side. They were beneath the main bank of screens, and the sorely abused aide took his seat at the station.

"No, someone has found us." Mycroft said, and pointed to one of the screens, where an email icon was blinking. It was the same address that Sherlock had sent his data packet to, full of his research from St Bart's. "No one knows that address other than you, Sherlock."

Sherlock felt his heart jump in his chest, and he inhaled sharply.

"Molly knows it, she saw me enter the address while we were working together in the lab. Death has Molly; this is from her." Sherlock looked at Mycroft, his eyes a mix of guilt and fear. "Open it."

"Sir that may not be wise…" The aide stammered, and Mycroft waved him into silence.

"Scan it quickly, then open it. Hurry."

The scan was quick, over in a flash. It was a video file, a large one. There was a message under the file, simple.

**Someone wants to say goodbye.**

The aide clicked on the file, and opened it on the largest screen.

The video started out in the dark, vague shadows and hints of movement. Whoever was holding the camera soon figured out what they were doing, as the lighting improved, and the picture came into focus.

It was a simple wooden stool placed in front of a white backdrop cloth. The sounds in the video echoed, as if in a large room. There was a scuffling noise, and the men watching the video all stood straighter as they heard a woman's voice complaining in the background. It was Sally Donovan, and she was swearing something vile as she was dragged onscreen. Two men in black masks held her arms, which were handcuffed in front of her. Lestrade pushed forward, and he held his breath as Donovan was forcibly sat on the stool. She had nothing on but a short grey shift, as if she were wearing a large man's shirt, covering her just past her thighs.

One of the men backhanded her, the other holding her up under the vicious blow. Blood dripped from her mouth, and she spit it on the floor. Lestrade backed up a step, hands going to his head, his face a mask of anger and fear.

"Enough." A voice came from the video, off screen. It was cultured, sweet, amiable, and all wrong for the context of what they were watching. "Sally, dear, do I need to remind you again of what happens when you are foolish?"

They watched in dreadful surprise as Sally immediately stopped struggling, and sat still on the stool, her eyes flashing brightly with terror. She sat still, so still the men let her go, as if expecting her full compliance. They left the screen, and the sleek form of Death walked into view. She wasn't masked, she had no need. She walked gracefully behind Sally, one delicate hand trailing along the police woman's shoulder, tugging playfully on her tight curls. Sally started to shake, her eyes bright with tears she refused to shed. She seemed to be staring straight out to the heart of the man who watched her, wishing she were free. Death turned to the camera, and they could clearly see the madness on her face, her eyes burning with insanity. She smiled, and kept one hand lightly on Sally's shoulder.

"Gregory Lestrade." She said, her voice magnetic, as if she were there in the room. "Do listen carefully. Go ahead, Sally. Say your piece."

Death smiled encouragingly at Donovan, who bit her lip before sitting up straighter on the stool. Some fire came back into her eyes, and anger tightened her jaw.

"I won't play your game, you crazy bitch." Sally growled. She flinched back, as Death lifted her hand, as if she expected a blow. Instead Death placed her fingers lightly under Sally's chin, and she leaned in close, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. She whispered something in Sally's ear, and the fight drained out of her. Gone, just gone. Sally was defeated by a kiss from Death.

Death pulled back, and walked a few steps away, and the camera zoomed in on Donovan.

"My name is Sally Donovan." She whispered, as if reciting something from memory. "I am a sergeant at Scotland Yard. My superior officer and department head is Detective Inspector Lestrade. I have worked for him for several years." Her voice stumbled, like she was afraid to say what came next.

"And I love him. I love you Greg." She choked, and pulled in some air. "It has been the greatest honor of my life to serve at your side, under your command. Yet I carry the shame of making you doubt Sherlock Holmes, that in my stubbornness and contempt I nearly ruined us both."

"I am here because you love me, too." Sally closed her eyes, refusing to look at the camera as she kept going. "Gregory Lestrade loves me. And he loves Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock Holmes cares for him in return."

"I am here to make a wound, to cut you, hurt you, Greg. Your pain will then hurt Sherlock. Just as my death will hurt you…" She started to sob, her eyes opening at last. "As John Watson's death will hurt Sherlock."

Lestrade was breathing so hard he was hyperventilating, tears running down his face. He had a death grip on the chair beside him, and he couldn't tear his eyes away from the screen. The camera zoomed out, Death coming back into frame. She was walking lightly, almost dancing, and she was flipping a silver bladed knife in the air. Sally sat shivering on the stool, her eyes overrun by tears.

"Greg…. I'm sorry." Sally whispered, as Death lifted the blade high over Sally, her arm holding it at the apex, before bringing it down, so swift their eyes couldn't follow.

Lestrade screamed, his voice full of anguish, despair, terror. He screamed her name, over and over again. His screams filled the great stone room, bouncing off the walls. He pulled back from the screens, pushing past the men standing in horrified shock behind him. Lestrade ran only a few feet, before he collapsed to his knees on the stone floor. He was quietly crying her name, voice choking on his tears.

Sally had fallen from frame as Death struck her with the long blade, limp and landing hard. The others watched, frozen in horror, as Death flipped the red-streaked knife a couple of more times in her hand. They couldn't see Sally's body, they couldn't tell if she were alive or dead. Death stopped spinning the knife, and she held it so they could see. Blood coated the long edge, bright crimson in the light. She smiled at them through the camera, and brought the blade to her lips. The tip of her pink tongue flicked out, and licked the blood from the blade's edge. There was screaming in the background. Women's screams.

The video ended, silence descended with finality in the bunker. Only Gregory Lestrade's sobs could be heard.

* * *

><p>Lestrade shattered. John sat with him, as Greg leaned over his knees, head in his hands, tears running from his eyes unchecked. He was quiet now, his voice robbed from him by his harsh screams of denial. He couldn't do anything, capable of only crying, his heart-broken by the loss of his fellow officer, his friend. She had been right in the video message, Sally. He did love her, very much. Lestrade cried for the woman he couldn't save, her life stolen by a madwoman.<p>

John had his arm around Lestrade's waist, and he leaned into the Inspector. He didn't care that it was more personal than either of them would usually be comfortable with, he did it anyway. He put his head to the other man's shoulder, and kept silent. He knew well the terrible burden of fresh grief, knew that there was nothing to do but let the waves carry you under until you drowned in them. The only thing you could do was hope you had something to anchor you through the worst of it.

There were still in the bunker, the room emptied by Mycroft when the video ended. They were on the couch at the far side of the room, in an area that had a vague impression of a break area. John doubted Lestrade was even aware of where he was, much less what the other men were doing. Mycroft and Sherlock sat at the computer station, and they were subtly analyzing the video file from Death. They had the screens turned, so that Lestrade couldn't see. No sound came out, the Holmes brothers focusing on the visual aspects of the video. John watched them, his chin resting on Lestrade. The other man didn't push him away, and John knew that Lestrade needed the contact.

John caught Mycroft looking at them, his eyes haunted. John held his gaze, until the MI6 man let his drift to the broken DI. Sherlock didn't even notice his brother's focus had wandered, so intent was he on the video. John could see the misery, the fear, everything so clear in the other man's eyes, Mycroft so easily read by the doctor. For all his face remained an impassive façade, his eyes held the truth. He wanted to be were John was, and he hadn't a clue how to go about it. He most likely had no idea he even wanted it, too.

John's heart was whispering to him, a hint of an idea. Lestrade was trapped, caught up in his grief, and John was only able to provide a fraction of the comfort Greg would get from the person he truly needed now. Who John knew would help him most. John caught Mycroft's eye as he sneaked another peek at the men on the couch. He held it, and lifted his free hand, and beckoned to the older man. Mycroft got a pinched look around his eyes, conflicted. John beckoned again, letting his own face show his exasperation. Mycroft's eyes darted to Greg, before quickly coming back to his. John tried to impress upon the MI6 man that this was not the time for cowardice, and Mycroft got the hint.

He pushed back from the computers, and tentatively began to walk over. Sherlock didn't even twitch; unaware his brother was attempting to break his own cardinal rule: Don't get involved.

John held tightly to Lestrade as Mycroft came over, the older man's hands alternating between occupying each other, and hiding in his pockets. The elder Holmes had no notion what to do, and John took pity on him. Lestrade was lost in a maze of grief and shock, and he was unaware of everything around him. John extended his free hand as Mycroft came within reach, and grabbed his wrist. John tugged an unresisting Mycroft towards him, as he withdrew his arm from Lestrade's waist. John stood slowly, and pulled Mycroft into his place. He was stiff, and John caught a tremor in his tall frame, as he took Mycroft by the shoulders, and sat him down next to Lestrade.

If the last few hours hadn't been so very terrible, so depressingly final, the look on Mycroft's face would have made John break out with laughter. Mycroft was looking at Lestrade like the other man was the most frightening, and the most wonderful, person in the world. John felt a tiny crack appear in his already battered heart, and he mimed to Mycroft that he should put his arm around Greg, just like John had been holding him.

Lestrade hadn't moved, or responded, or reacted in any way the entire time John had been holding him, in the hours since Sally fell from sight in the video. He had screamed out her name, begging for God to spare her, and then he had fallen silent. Tears of acceptance, and honest grief had been flowing since, Greg Lestrade overwhelmed. He sat with his hands covering his face, head down, shoulders trembling.

When Mycroft sat next to him, and raised a timid hand to the DI's shoulder, Lestrade shook harder, and moved. He didn't move far, or much, but he leaned into that hand. He leaned into Mycroft, and the Holmes brother tightened his grip, and inched closer to Lestrade on the couch. Mycroft lost that fearful expression, and he looked determined, eyes locked on the man next to him. He looked like Sherlock in that moment, when confronted by a case he refused to leave unsolved.

John took one last look at them, before tucking his hands in his pockets, and walked towards his own Holmes.

John walked up behind Sherlock, where he sat in the chair, and wrapped an arm tight around Sherlock's shoulder and neck, tucking his hand under Sherlock's arm. John hugged his love to him, dropping his face into the dark, wild curls on Sherlock's head. John let a tear slip out, and stayed where he was, breathing Sherlock in. Sherlock said nothing, just lifted a hand, and took hold of John's arm in a firm grip, his thumb rubbing on his sleeve.

John held Sherlock, as Sherlock dug for clues. John found himself appreciating Sherlock's capacity to keep going, to focus, regardless of what horrible things were happening. The disciple was tearing them down, one by one. John feared the next video that Death would send, so obvious was her plan to demoralize them, render them useless by grief.

"Sherlock?" John whispered, his face still buried in the detective's curls.

"Hmm?" Sherlock stopped his analysis, waiting.

"I need you to make me a promise." John said, and lifted his face from the soft curls. He turned Sherlock in the chair, his detective facing him. He stepped in close, one hand cupping Sherlock's face, thumb caressing the sharply defined cheekbone, the pale skin.

"What promise?" Sherlock whispered back, his hand rising to hold John's hand to his face. Sherlock was very serious, eyes searching John's for a hint of what he wanted.

"Don't play her game." John said, and he leaned down, his forehead to Sherlock's. "No matter what happens: If she manages to get me, if she threatens to blow up London, if she holds the world hostage- Don't play her game."

Sherlock tensed, but John stopped him, and looked Sherlock deep his eyes.

"You win when you figure out the rules. Promise me you won't let her dictate the game."

Sherlock leaned back, mildly surprised by the intensity and fervor of John's words. His doctor was adamant, eyes serious.

"If she captures me, if she hurts me, you do everything you can to stop her. No matter what happens. Don't let her use me to control you."

"John, I won't endanger…." Sherlock tried to speak, but John cut him off.

"She destroyed Lestrade with a single video. A horrible, evil video, but she still did it. And she's going to do it again. She still has Anthea, and Molly. She wants to kill you, but not until she's killed me. She's controlling everything. Controlling you. Don't let her. Do whatever you have to, whatever it takes. Just don't let her win."

Sherlock couldn't speak, his wish to keep John safe obvious in his face, refusing to listen. John caught him tightly, both hands holding Sherlock still.

"Promise me." John told him, kissing Sherlock firmly. "Now."

"John….." Sherlock shut up at the look on John's face. John narrowed his eyes, and Sherlock found himself slowly nodding.

"I promise." Sherlock whispered, and John swooped down for a kiss, tongues and lips tangling.

Sherlock wrapped his arms tight around his doctor's waist, John flush against him, hands cradling Sherlock's face. The kiss was deep, and powerful. John kissed Sherlock as if they would never have the chance again, both their lives cut short any second. Too many wasted moments, too many years spent pretending they weren't each other's soul mates. Death was stalking them, and any minute could be their last.


	28. Deception, Part One

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**Warning: Extreme sadness, violence, and serious heart-break. If you can stay strong, and read this through to the end, I promise that you will be rewarded in the next chapter. I broke this up into two pieces, as the entire chapter was 30 pages long. **

**Be strong. Read on. Next chapter drops soon. **

**Read, enjoy, review.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty Eight<strong>

"_**Deception, Part I"**_

Mycroft watched Lestrade breathe; his chest rise and fall in slumber. The DI was passed out in Mycroft's room, where he had ended up the night before. His very big bed somehow seemed smaller with the other man spread across the blankets. Mycroft felt a warm flood of something new swell up from his core, making him want to step nearer to the bed. To reach out, hand to warm skin, and feel his pulse….

John came up behind him in the doorway, looking carefully into the room.

"He still out, then?" John asked quietly, eyes scanning the prone figure. The doctor had helped Sherlock carry Lestrade out of the bunker the night before, and Mycroft's room was the nearest, with a big enough bed. Anthea's room down the hall just didn't seem right to intrude upon. Mycroft had sat in his armchair next to the window, checking updates on his mobile, eyes drifting over the DI as he slept throughout the night. Mycroft had made a very quiet call early in the morning, excusing Lestrade's absence from work at Scotland Yard, temporarily assigning him to MI6. Lestrade was incapable of facing the world today.

John and Sherlock had spent the night, in the room next door. Mycroft felt unsettled, sleeping in the same house as his little brother; something he hadn't done since he was a very young man, coming home from university during the holidays. Having so many people in his home was disconcerting, in the areas he reserved for himself, and only in the last few years, Anthea. She had moved herself in, as constantly being woken in the middle of the night, and really all hours of the day, by incessant calls and orders had been very inconvenient. He had let her do it, and said nothing. She had known he knew, and all she did was smile at him across the table the next day at breakfast.

Mycroft felt a small smile attempt to move him, as he flashed back to the very powerful memory. It was the first time he had ever let someone make their own decision about his life since he became an adult. And Mycroft hadn't minded at all. He knew he rationalized it by saying having her here in his home was more convenient, but truly, he knew it was because he cared. He, the Iceman, Mycroft Holmes, cared for someone he wasn't related too. Mycroft couldn't even remember when she stopped being just another aide, and became his. And now his Anthea was in danger, and he was useless. She was out there in the hands of pure evil. Madness had his girl, his Anthea.

Mycroft tore his gaze away from the DI, uncomfortable. He had been staring at the man sleeping in his bed, and felt a strange sensation creep from the depths as he thought of Anthea. Mycroft was torn, and he didn't know why. It felt like someone was waiting impatiently for him to answer an important question, to do something, and he was lost as to what it was.

"He slept all night. He didn't wake up once." Mycroft murmured back, and stepped back into the hall, pulling the door shut as he did.

"Did you sleep?" John asked, the shorter man looking up at him, a touch of professional concern evident in his eyes. And there seemed to be something else, a secret in the doctor's eyes, like he knew the answer to what was bothering Mycroft.

"I share more than a name with Sherlock, Dr Watson. I rarely sleep." Mycroft said, and he turned down the hall, John stepping with him.

Mycroft paused beside Anthea's room, her door open, the room dark, even in the morning sun. The curtains were drawn, and he could just see the base of her bed, her bags from the aborted trip to the countryside sitting forlornly on the comforter. Mycroft stiffened, and walked on. John stayed a moment, and the evidence of a woman's touch within the space clicked for him. Anthea lived with Mycroft, and John had never known. Sherlock would know, yet he never said anything either.

John watched the tall lanky form of the oldest Holmes disappear down the stairs, presumably going to the breakfast room. The Holmes men were more than they appeared. The younger with the attitude of a sociopath and a hero's heart; and the eldest, cold and ruthless, with a hidden vulnerability, seen only by a few.

* * *

><p>Lestrade didn't know where he was. It was beyond him to care. The blanket beneath his face was soft, the scent foreign and eerily familiar. His head was foggy, his eyes burning, his throat sore. Every muscle in his body hurt, hurt badly.<p>

He rolled on to his back, arms shaking. The world hurt, it all hurt. It all hurt. The feeling of the soft bed beneath him was like daggers on his skin. The warmth of the sun stabbed him, the cold air from the autumn chill razed his lungs, the clothes on his back choking him. Every sense was attacking him, ripping into him.

He was rolled under by the torrent of memory. It came crashing in from the darkness of his soul, tearing him apart. He couldn't turn it off, he couldn't escape. Reality tore him to shreds. She was gone. Gone because he loved her, because she loved him back. The blade flashing silver in the light, her blood red on its edge. Her body falling from the stool, limp. He hadn't seen her hit the floor, but the sound had carried across on the video, and he could hear her hit. The hollow thud of a corpse. Not a person anymore.

_Sally. Sally. I was supposed to keep you safe. It was my job. My responsibility._

It came back hard, roaring at him. Greg Lestrade screamed under its weight, the force of his grief, fueled by guilt, fighting its way free in the cold morning.

* * *

><p>His scream tore through the house, horrendous in its power. Grief shook the foundations of the world within the townhouse.<p>

The two Holmes brothers and John were in the kitchen, grabbing something to eat before heading back to the bunker. Mycroft was standing sipping tea, his mobile in his hands, just staring at the empty screen, wishing he could get some useful bit of information.

Lestrade's scream reverberated through the kitchen, and Mycroft jerked as if he had been stabbed. The teacup hadn't even hit the floor before Mycroft was out the door, running for the stairs. He took them three at a time, not caring that he left his brother and John struggling to catch up. He ran for his room, the man he had left sleeping. Another scream ripped down the hall, bouncing off the hard walls, slamming with terrible force on Mycroft's ears. He had to get to him, there was nothing left to do but push harder those last few steps.

Mycroft tore into his room, and headed for the bed, and the man tearing into the blankets. Lestrade was nothing but misery, guilt, despair, and he couldn't keep it in. Mycroft jumped to the bed beside the detective inspector, and grabbed him. Mycroft pulled him up, ignoring the fists striking out, hands digging, tearing at him. He held Greg tightly to his chest, the police man's screams muffled in his shirt. His hands came up, and Mycroft tensed for the blow, but it never came. Arms wrapped around his torso instead, and Lestrade began to shake. His screams dissolved into sobs, and both men shook with the force of them.

Sherlock was in the doorway, arm out to keep John from going in the room. John braced himself on Sherlock's arm, mouth agape at the sight before him. Sherlock was having trouble on his own, a strong part of him telling him to go in there, to try and offer something to the broken man his brother held so tightly. Lestrade was damn near in Mycroft's lap, his big brother's arms holding Lestrade securely to his chest, one hand buried in the silver hair of the weeping man. Mycroft was crying silently, his own tears falling unnoticed down his cheeks as he let the grief pour out from Lestrade.

Sherlock wrapped an arm around John, and pulled his doctor to his chest. Sherlock lowered his head to John's and the doctor held him as tears slid out from under his lashes. Sherlock was crying, for the man who grieved for the woman he loved so much, and Sherlock cried for his brother, at the tears another human's pain wrought from Mycroft.

John held Sherlock, his own eyes wet, and he watched the two on the bed. John cursed himself for wishing for something to show Mycroft how to be human. It had come, but at a terrible price. It had cost a life.

* * *

><p>Anthea sat at the base of the wall in their cage, Molly huddled along her side. The pathologist was better off physically than the MI6 agent, but she was far more traumatized. They had been forced to watch as Death filmed her message to Detective Inspector Lestrade, and the horrible events that followed. Molly had dissolved, a ruined mass of helpless fear and grief. She had sat and rocked herself to sleep the night before, as close to Anthea as she could get. During the night, Molly had cried out in her sleep, something about '<em>she has his eyes<em>', over and over. Anthea had wanted to ask Molly what that meant, but she knew the other woman was too fragile, and needed what little sleep she was getting.

Anthea knew well that Donovan had been a friend to the pathologist, the two women colleagues for years. Anthea hadn't known the officer that well, only seeing her when she summoned Lestrade to Mycroft's side, or other random moments of chance. But she had been a capable, strong and stubborn woman, and she hadn't deserved the death she had gotten.

It still troubled Anthea, the way she had fallen from the stool, the way Death had struck at her with the blade. It had been very impressive, very showy. As if Death was going for the visual impact of a horrid death, and not an efficient one. Death was all cool efficiency, deadly and ruthless. The way she ended Donovan was out of character. Sally had still fallen, and Death's minions had dragged her limp body from the room, with a trail of blood on the floor behind them.

Anthea watched the men in the room, as they prepped gear, checked their weapons, and talked in small groups. There was more than the dozen or so she had seen the day before, Anthea guessed nearly thirty men in total. Most likely more, as they kept coming and going from the ballroom, and she was having trouble keeping track of that many people through the pain.

Anthea's hand was broken, and she had several small shards of metal and wood imbedded in the flesh of her hand. When Death had shot the gun from her hand, the impact had broken several bones, and the bullet hitting the wood door had added to the damage. Anthea feared she would never have full use of her hand again, even if she managed to survive this captivity. She had attempted to use a portion of her shift as a bandage, and she had stopped most of the blood flow. Anthea held her arm tightly to her chest, and blood had soaked through the front of her shift. She had lost close to two pints from the way she felt, weak and dizzy, but not too severe. As long as she moved slowly, she was okay.

She had dozed overnight, waking from the pain, as her body jerked in sleep. Molly had been a welcome source of heat through the night, as their captors had seen fit to punish them further by removing their clothes and giving them these cotton shifts to wear instead. Anthea had expected it; it was one way to insure cooperation from captives, by making them as vulnerable as possible. Being this close to naked worked. They were tossed bottles of water, and fruit, and every few hours three men armed to the teeth would escort them to the bathroom. One would stay with them the whole time, and Anthea had stamped down her rage at the indignity of it. She hadn't been allowed to tend her hand, roughly pulled from the bathroom once she finished using the toilet.

There was some sort of mission prep going on, as a dozen or so men were being briefed on the far side of the room. Anthea was too far away to see what it was, or to hear, but there was a large map on the wall, and the mission leader was assigning what looked like parts of an assault. Anthea wished she were able to see, to hear. Any information she could gleam from her captivity could help the others find them, or at least stop Death. Anthea knew her time would soon come to be filmed, and she wanted to do everything she could to help Mycroft and Sherlock find Death. Anthea had no hope of surviving her video message. She knew she was going to die.

She watched, half awake, and flooded by a fresh wave of pain when Molly jerked in her sleep. A door on the far side of the room opened, and a small figure stepped into the ballroom. Anthea was too far away to hear anything, but she easily recognized the blonde head of Mary Morstan. The female assassin was wearing normal street clothes, dark denim jeans and a dark blue jumper that hugged her curves and made her hair shine brighter. She walked straight to the group of men getting briefed, and Anthea watched in amazement as the men parted for her easily, their demeanor screaming she was in charge. Mary perused the map on the wall, asking questions of the mission leader, and he answered promptly, filling her in on details. Mary nodded, and continued to study the map. Whatever was going to happen, it would be soon. Mary was planning something, something big.

* * *

><p>Mary stood outside the cage, looking down at the women sleeping on the floor. Mary knew Molly, but she had never met Anthea. Donovan had been a taboo subject back when she was with John, as the very mention of that woman had enraged the doctor. Mary felt her heart stir, as Molly whimpered in her sleep. Anthea was cradling the pathologist with her uninjured arm, despite her own condition. Mary hadn't been present when Anthea had staged their attempted escape, and from all accounts it had been smoothly done. If not for Death's timely arrival, they may have made it outside. But not much farther, as the grounds were patrolled and there were many more men here than the prisoners had seen.<p>

Death came up behind her, and stood quietly at her shoulder, watching the women as well.

"What has you so troubled, Mary?" Death asked, her voice low, avoiding the room's tendency to echo.

"Cruelty is not part of me. I enjoy the spilling of blood, the violence. But cruelty is beyond me." Mary replied, unafraid to speak her mind.

"It is a part of me, though." Death replied, her hand rising to Mary's shoulder. "Don't be worried, Mary. They are only the tools I use to harm my true victims; their ordeal shall soon be over. I promised you, after all."

Mary nodded, remembering the morning she cried in this very room, Death holding her as she wept out her rage and pain. Death had asked for her help, detailing her plans for Sherlock Holmes and his friends. Mary had agreed to participate, for two things in return. That she help Mary stop Magnussen, and to obtain a new identity; and the last was that she show mercy. Not to Sherlock or John- but to the tools of their destruction.

"They have only a few more hours in that cage, before the second stage is over, and then they can join Donovan. A merciful end is what I promised you, and they shall get it." Death gripped her shoulder one more time, and walked away.

Mary stared down at the women, and knew she had bargained all she could for them. Death was not naturally bent towards mercy, but she seemed willing to offer it on Mary's behalf. The woman known as Death only acted close to human when she was with Mary, the madness settled down, like a dragon well fed and sleeping in its cave. Mary did not know what to make of that, the reactions she garnered from Death, just by being in the same space.

Anthea slept on, but Molly stirred. Mary held her breath, afraid the woman had heard; that she was awake. Molly never opened her eyes, and settled back into Anthea's side. Mary waited, and when Molly remained still, she pulled herself away from the cage, and back to the mission.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was pawing through stacks of paper, most of it twenty years old, and many of them older. He was looking for the deed to Blackwood Chemical, to see who owned it. Sherlock knew, he just knew, that there was something connecting Blackwood to Death. To Moriarty. She had deliberately chosen the chemical facility as her debut. And she knew it wouldn't be easy for Sherlock to find the connection. It was as if she had foreseen his difficulty, and set the information like a time-delayed bomb of knowledge. Sherlock would find the connection either too late to stop her, or just when she needed him to know.<p>

Sherlock had sworn to John that he wouldn't play her game, and so he needed to find the connection sooner rather than later. He had been a step behind this woman the entire game; she was a match indeed for her deceased master. Her ability to show them all just how helpless they were to stop her was daunting, and Sherlock felt a grudging sense of admiration for her skills. She outclassed even The Woman.

Sherlock had attempted to find the information digitally, but had come up empty. Most records within the system had been updated, but recent titles and deeds had been digitalized as priority, and the older bits of information had been wait listed for input. Anything at the twenty year mark or older would eventually get there, and since the property was condemned by the government and promptly forgotten, it was unlikely it would have even been entered into the system.

So Sherlock had sent some minions out for the hard copies of records for properties in the area of Blackwood, raiding the public records offices with impunity. They had brought back boxes of paperwork, and Sherlock wasted no time in tearing them apart.

He had given up trying to trace the email, the one sent with the video. It was designed for secure transactions, to be untraceable. They were foiled in tracking Death by their own precautions.

It was late afternoon now, approaching the same time of the previous day's video message. John had been right, last night when he confessed his fears that Death would send a video until her hostages were dead. Sherlock dreaded the news of its arrival, for it would been he was failing. Sherlock Holmes didn't fail. Ever. And yet he was. He was letting this madwoman win, destroy their lives.

Sherlock lashed out, his foot connecting solidly with a nearby chair, sending it slamming into the wall. It broke and the snapping of wood was loud in the room. He closed his eyes; hands curled into fists at his sides, and strove for control. He couldn't let his emotions take precedence; he had to remain focused.

He had studied the video of Donovan's execution for clues to where Death was, where she was holding her hostages. The room the video was recorded in had been large, the floor solid wood, and the backdrop had concealed enough of the wall behind it to offer vague hints of wood lined walls. Large wooden room, shrouded. A place that had been locked up perhaps, as the owners were away? You only shrouded a room when you were expecting to be away for a long time. It made sense, taking over an empty property to hold out in. Not that this revelation was at all useful. There were possibly millions of likely candidates for empty places to hide in in the whole of England.

"Sir?" Came the timid voice from the doorway.

Sherlock turned to the door, his face an emotionless mask, belaying the wreckage of the room, the papers scattered everywhere. An aide was waiting, and Sherlock knew what words were to fall from his lips.

"There's another message. Your brother and Dr Watson are waiting." The aide stuttered, and disappeared.

Sherlock went cold all over, air in short supply. He waited a moment longer, a moment longer to avoid the inevitable. He flashed back to Mycroft's words, uttered so long ago now.

"_All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."_

* * *

><p>Mary waited with her team, as they geared up in the ballroom. The plan was a complex one, and she needed her people in position before she went. It was a stroke of genius, and Mary found herself idly wishing it had been her idea. Death had planned this all out, substituting Mary for herself, and the change merely improved the whole.<p>

Mary felt for her weapon, a small Beretta snug under her dark blue jumper, tucked into the bottom of her bra. She would only need it if Sherlock intended to kill her once the mission began. And considering the video Death had just sent, and the one being filmed now, he just might. She wouldn't be using her Beretta unless she had no other choice. Death had given her a special weapon to use tonight, and Mary had found herself again impressed by the younger woman's innovation.

Mary felt a vague stirring of guilt, her stomach getting queasy. She stamped down on it hard, eradicating her emotional response. She cast her eyes over to the far side of the room, where Molly Hooper sat dejectedly on the stool, the camera filming. Mary looked away, and her stomach complained again.

She walked quickly from the room, so none of the members of her team would see her get sick. She made it to the bathroom just in time, and vomited into the toilet. She sat on the cool floor until her body calmed down, and she flushed, standing slowly. She didn't know how long she had been in there, but it was long enough for Death to have finished the video. She was waiting just inside the door, and watched as Mary rinsed out her mouth in the sink.

"You've been sick a lot, Mary." Death stated, no emotion in her voice. Her eyes followed Mary's movements, looking for the cause of her illness.

Other than being pale, and thirsty, Mary now felt fine. She glared at her reflection, and blew out a breath.

Mary stared at herself in the mirror, and she felt a quiver of doubt race over her heart. What was she doing? Was she so conflicted that she was making herself ill? Killing for something other than duty and a paycheck was so foreign.

"I'm not used to killing for emotional reasons. It's against all my conditioning, my training. But so is failure. Once I start a mission, I never fail. I'll be fine." Mary said, throwing away her paper towel, and facing Death without showing a trace of doubt.

The younger woman looked at her, head to toe. She seemed to be measuring the depths of Mary's convictions. Mary let her look, knowing she would only see her determination to finish. Mary never failed a mission. Ever.

"I hope so, Mary. One of us needs to survive this, and it certainly shouldn't be me." Death said, and smiled slightly. "Are you ready? I'm about to send the teams into position, and once you've left, I'll send the last video. Should give you enough time to get in place before I head out."

"I'm ready." Mary nodded, and walked out of the bathroom, back into the ballroom. The men were waiting, the twenty-four of them dressed accordingly to their specific duties during the mission. Some were in uniforms, others in street clothing, and the few in tactical gear stood to the side. The far side of the ballroom was empty, the cell unlocked and vacant. Mary felt it again, the stirring of guilt, and pushed it away. She couldn't focus on them now, she had a mission to complete. She knew Death had kept her promise, and that was enough.

Mary turned to face Death, who had stopped next to her gear, where it was waiting on the table nearest the door.

"You choose, Mary. Fist, or asp." Death asked her.

"Fist, please. I'll need to be able to see for this to work, after all. Just make it look good." Mary shook out her arms, and refused to let herself tense up.

Death was very fast, she couldn't deny that. Her fist flashed out from nowhere, cracking Mary across the cheek. The blow staggered her, and one of the men caught her as she stumbled. She put a hand to her cheek, and moved her jaw. Nothing broken. Yet. The pain stirred her blood, and Mary growled in anticipation. Death could do better.

"You hit like such a girl. C'mon, try again. Give me shiner." Mary came back for more, and grinned in delight as Death shook out her fist. Death just cocked a brow at her, a matching grin growing on her lips, and she swung again.

* * *

><p>Sherlock entered the bunker, slowly this time. The world was waiting on him, the email unopened, waiting on the screen where the one before it had played. John came to his side as he stopped before the screens, Mycroft sitting at the station, his hands clutching his knees. Sherlock nodded to the aide, who silently opened the message.<p>

**Her devotion to you is impressive, Mycroft.**

The video played.

Anthea was seen immediately, seated on the stool, and the camera was steady, as if on a tripod, unwavering. She was dressed much as Donovan had been, a short grey shift barely covering her, this one shorter on her than on Donovan.

The bottom hem was ripped off, and wrapped around the ruin of her hand and arm. Blood soaked through the makeshift bandage, and where she held her arm to her chest, blood had dried in a river down her front. Mycroft swore under his breath at the sight, leaning forwards in his chair.

Anthea wasn't crying, nor did she look frightened. Her long slim legs were bare, and crossed neatly on the stool. She was very pale, blood loss obviously the cause. Her hair was a wild mess, her face tired and streaked with blood, but she was lovely despite all that, and there was smile on her lips. She stared into the lens of the camera as if she was there in the room with them all, and she smiled only for Mycroft. Her bright green eyes were shining, affection lighting them from within. There was that special tilt to her lips, the one she gave when she found the world amusing, yet she couldn't summon the bother to laugh at it. Her posture spoke of calm certainty, and grace. Anthea was not afraid.

"Mycroft." Her voice was soft, and strong. She said his name as if it were a benediction, caressing the air in the space between them. "Listen to me carefully, sir."

Mycroft cringed as she called him 'sir', his heart breaking apart in his chest. It was the way she always said it, as if he were the only man in the world worth the title.

"Death has promised me that I may speak my mind if I tell you what she wants me to say first. So here are her words, as she has asked me to repeat them. I had meant to pass you a message, but I know that is folly, for I wish for my last words to be uncensored. For my cooperation, she will make it quick."

Mycroft shuddered, and John held tighter to Sherlock.

"The world knows me as Anthea, and I am an MI6 agent, the personal aide to Mycroft Holmes, director for MI6. I am here because I love you, and regardless of what the world thinks, you love me in return. I am to cripple you, to draw out your will as poison from a wound. My death is to kill your strength. As John Watson's death will kill Sherlock's."

Death moved into the frame of the video, her hands held behind her back. She said nothing, just went to stand behind Anthea's shoulder, and stood waiting. Anthea glanced back at her, and Death nodded, as if giving permission. Death's demeanor spoke of respect, an odd attitude for her to hold for the woman bleeding on the stool. The men watching tensed up, fearing what was coming. They saw no weapon, yet Death's hands were hidden from them, and the fate she held for Anthea could be terrible.

"Mycroft. My Mycroft." Anthea whispered, her voice still clear and strong, yet intimate, private. She didn't care that others were listening, watching. She spoke only for Mycroft.

"The name I carry is not mine, chosen in a moment of silliness, and yet you called me that, embracing it as you embraced me. The day I came from headquarters to be an aide for you was a day I shall never forget. The rumors of your heartless, ruthless ways and cold intelligence had been passed among the agency for years, and everyone dreaded being assigned to you."

Anthea smiled, as if she knew a secret. "I wasn't afraid. I didn't care about rumors, and how big your legend had gotten. And after I met you? Why, I was confounded. Where had these tales of a heartless man come from? Where was the Iceman I had heard so much about? Only fearful fools believed such things, only idiots failed to see past the armor you carry so securely around yourself."

Her smile grew into a grin, and her voice carried a hint of laughter. "Mycroft. All I saw when I met you was a great man. Fiercely intelligent, deeply loyal, with a depth of character that made all other men lesser creatures. Your devotion to our country and your family inspires me. I gave you my loyalty, these past years of my life without hesitation. For you, nothing was too great a price."

"So I want you to know, I fought to get back to you. Back to my life, my life with you. I am injured because I fought to escape, and nearly succeeded. I almost saved the others." Anthea stopped, and took a deep breath. She smiled one last time, her gaze for Mycroft, the man watching her as if she were his world.

"You alone know my real name. Will you whisper it into the dark night air? So that I can hear you say it, and so you know that you will never be alone, no matter where I may be?"

A noiseless sob was ripped from Mycroft, and he nodded, unable to stop the specter of doom that stood behind Anthea. The MI6 agent sucked in a deep breath, pulled her shoulders back, and let it out. She nodded to the woman behind her, and looked ahead, eyes fixed on the knowledge that Mycroft was watching her. She hadn't cried once.

Death came alive behind Anthea, and one of her hands whipped out, unsnapping an asp. The long black weapon cracked loudly in the quiet, and Mycroft cried out in denial. Death spun it in the air, lightning fast, a blur of motion. Anthea didn't flinch, didn't make a move that said she knew her end was coming. The woman known as Death handled the asp like an extension of her arm, and she moved fast. So fast their eyes were denied seeing the blow that ended Anthea. She fell from the stool, as Donovan had, yet they could see her on the floor, limp, hair covering her face. Blood ran from her nose, and dripped to the floor.

Death twirled the asp, the passage of it moving through the air the only sound to be heard, other than Mycroft's strangled breathing. She raised her arm, and slammed the point of the asp into the hard wooden seat of the stool, collapsing the weapon back into its handle. She looked into the camera, her eyes hard, dead inside. Dark eyes, eyes void of humanity.

There was weeping in the background. Molly's tears.

The video ended.

* * *

><p>John was crying, his hand over his mouth. Death had stolen his voice, with her wordless slaying of Anthea. Sherlock stepped to his brother, who was still, unmoving in his chair.<p>

Anthea's courage at the very end was beyond the measure of words.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock whispered, hand outstretched to his older brother.

Mycroft moved. His movements were jerky, as if he were being pulled by strings. He staggered on his feet, and pushed past Sherlock. He went to the computer, and began typing. John went to his side, trying to understand what he was doing. Sherlock groaned, his eyes on the screens.

Mycroft typed in the final commands, and John caught it before he hit Enter.

**Activate: Holmes, Sherlock. Priority ULTRA. Command Status. EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY.**

Mycroft hit the key, and backed away from the computer. He had no words, nothing to say. His face was vacant, eyes shuttered. Mycroft was shutting down. He turned, and Sherlock followed on his heels as Mycroft left the bunker. John chased after them, as the Holmes brothers were close to running now. Mycroft took the stairs as if they weren't there, moving down the hall, and up the stairs again to the upper floor. John chased Sherlock and Mycroft, panic and pain clouding his thoughts. He feared what Mycroft might do, what Sherlock might not be able to stop him from doing. Mycroft ran like he was out of time, that something was going to happen.

He ran in to his bedroom, and to the bed where Lestrade lay resting. He was awake, and the DI's eyes lit up with the horrible knowledge that it had happened again. Mycroft stopped at the foot of the bed, and his shoulders shook with the tears he couldn't release. Lestrade sat up, and put his hand on the spymaster's. He pulled, lying back down, and Mycroft followed him onto the bed. Mycroft buried himself in Lestrade's chest, and the silver haired man wrapped his arms tightly around him.

Sherlock stood at the side of the bed, and looked down at them. Voiceless tears ran down his face, and Sherlock reached out. He put his hand gently on his brother's shoulder, squeezed. Lestrade caught Sherlock's eyes, and even John could see the fury brewing in them, past the pain and grief.

"Stop her." Lestrade whispered to Sherlock. The detective met his eyes for a long moment, and he nodded.

Sherlock rubbed Mycroft's shoulder once more, before stepping away from the bed. Sherlock collected John at the doorway, and shut the door behind them.

* * *

><p>Sherlock sat on the floor outside Mycroft's door. No sound came through it, nothing. Sherlock leaned into his doctor's shoulder, as John held his arm. Sherlock didn't know how long they had been there, needing to stay nearby, but unwilling to intrude on the grief inside that room. It had been a long time though. A few hours. Night had fallen, deep shadows everywhere.<p>

"John." Sherlock whispered. John looked up at him, from where he was snuggled up against his detective. Sherlock was breaking apart, guilt seeping into the cracks. Helplessness. Doubt.

"Yeah?"

"Molly is next." Sherlock closed his eyes, tears pricking and burning. "And I'm failing her. I failed Donovan, and Anthea. I failed Lestrade. I failed my brother. I don't know how to find them."

John was quiet, his breathing soft. Sherlock leaned into him more, seeking comfort. Anything. He opened his eyes, and saw John watching him, eyes running with tears of his own. His doctor's dark eyes were sad, and help a depth of compassion that Sherlock had never ceased to be amazed by. John Watson was the better man by far. Such a strong heart, an inner core of steel. He had survived so much, so much injury and pain. And he never failed to offer a shoulder to cry on, to support someone in pain. He never hesitated to step up, to do what was necessary. Brave, and strong. John Watson was a fighter.

Sherlock saw this all in his doctor's eyes. Strength, compassion, a kind and loving heart. Sherlock held his gaze, and breathed John in. Took a calm breath, felt his insides settle. Pain was coming, death was among them. But as long as Sherlock had John, he would never be defeated.

John didn't have to say anything. He could see Sherlock's entire heart, in those brilliant eyes. Eyes that were as lovely as stars in the clear night sky. He saw the doubts the detective was battling, the fear he wasn't enough. That for all his hubris, he truly wasn't enough to save the day. Sherlock may claim to not be a hero, but real heroes never claimed the spotlight. Never took credit for their acts. As if they didn't see their actions that way. Sherlock was a great man, who did amazing things. John knew that if the day came that Sherlock sought out glory for glory's sake, that meant John was long dead and buried, and Sherlock was lost. John wasn't worried, he had everything to fight for. Everything to gain by living a long and meaningful life by this man's side.

"If we can't save Molly, if we can't find Death in time, then we will avenge them."

There was a sound down the hall, and Sherlock and John looked up to see an aide hovering on the top step of the stairs.

Sherlock moaned quietly. John saw the look on the aide's face, and swore, his grip on Sherlock tight. The aide gathered his nerve, and came towards them. His posture clearly said he didn't want to be the messenger.

"Sir." The aide stopped a few feet away. "There's been another message. Just came in."

John held Sherlock's arm, as the taller man shook. John's heart was shattering, and they both sat there, as the aide shuffled on his feet, looking at the floor.

_Mollymollymollymollymolly….._ Her name circled in Sherlock's head, and he raised his free hand, and bit it, hard. Sherlock was losing it, and they hadn't even gotten off the floor yet. How was he going to survive watching Molly die?

John choked back a sob, and gathered his feet under him. John let the tears fall. The aide caught his eye, and John nodded at him. He seemed to understand, and he ducked his head, and walked back the way he had come. John watched as Sherlock struggled, and John felt his heart break for his lover. John cared for Molly too; she was smart and funny, and kind. She had done the impossible; she had gotten through to Sherlock Holmes, and she had helped him destroy a monster.

"Don't let Death win, Sherlock." John whispered, and he gently tugged Sherlock's hand out of his mouth, rubbing the deep welts where he had bitten down hard. "Molly needs us now. She needs us to see this."

Sherlock let John lead him to the bunker, let John raise his hand to the panel, unlocking the door. Sherlock was fighting for his control, mind retreating already from the pain. Molly had worked her way into his heart, she truly had. Subtle, essential, Molly Hooper.

John sensed that Sherlock was withdrawing, his eyes colder, the light fading. John struggled for words, for anything to say. There was nothing.

Sherlock knew that Molly was already dead. She most likely died soon after Anthea. These video messages were not live, they weren't broadcast. She had been dead for some time now. Sherlock was certain.

Sherlock stopped halfway across the floor. He dropped John's hand, closed his eyes. Sherlock withdrew fully from the world around him, dropped away until he felt nothing from his body. His mind was where he was strongest, his abilities purest, unfiltered by distracting sensory input. Sherlock opened his eyes to his mind palace, and strode through the doors of St Bart's. He took the illusionary halls to Molly's lab, and stepped inside.

Molly was standing beside her microscope, the one he always used. She never complained when he commandeered it; just let him have her seat, a small smile on her face. Her hair was down, flowing free, so long it fell along her whole back, ending past her hips. Only once before had Sherlock seen her like this, long ago in the cold of the morgue.

This Molly smiled sweetly at him, and reached out her hand, her ring finger bare. Sherlock grasped her small fingers in his long pale ones. She looked up at him, and her voice was an echo of reality, stutter free and without nerves.

"You can do this." Her voice pulling him in, Sherlock stepped closer, just their clasped hands between them. "Death was Moriarty's disciple. He assumed that he would cripple you, force you into defeat by using your heart against you. She does the same. She makes the same moves."

Sherlock knew she wasn't really there, that he was merely speaking to himself. He didn't care, he needed this. He lifted a hand, and pushed her hair from her face, behind her ear. Soft strands, warm skin, same scented shampoo as always. He had known this woman for years, and to his everlasting shame, he had let her believe herself invisible. She was the first to ever find his heart, even before John. Sherlock hadn't known what to do with her, so he just let himself maintain the status quo. It had taken John's effect on his heart to open Sherlock up to Molly, at the last-minute. Her seeing him in those last hours before the Fall, the love and sadness in his eyes as he gazed at John, those words she spoke were forever scorched across his memory.

"Forgive me, Molly Hooper." Sherlock said to her, this ghost. More fool he, for always needing to say those words. "That I could not save you. I didn't know how."

"Sherlock, I will always be with you. Here, where I will never be forgotten. But you must go back, you must let me say goodbye." Her ghost was shimmering, her hand in his disappearing. Before she faded from sight completely, she whispered in his ear. "Don't let me be the reason you miss something. You have been so close, so very close to solving this. Don't let her blind you."

"Open your eyes, Sherlock." And with that, Molly was gone. Sherlock tried to summon her back, to give her substance, but she was gone. He felt a deep sense of loss, as if he had lost a part of himself.

John was worried sick. Sherlock was so deeply shut down, eyes hidden to the world, hands clenched at his side. He looked as if he were fighting, striving to hold on to something with all his might. John couldn't think of what to do, or if he should even do anything. The aide was staring, his own exhausted eyes troubled as he watched the man standing so still in the middle of the room.

Sherlock opened his eyes to the bunker, eyes dry, free from pain and misery. The pathologist's ghost had centered him, released his dread, his guilt. Sherlock would face her last goodbye, no matter what happened, without pain or trepidation. She deserved no less from him. Molly had been right. Death was trying to blind him, remove the threat of him by destroying his heart. She won if he let her.

Sherlock moved to the computer, and pushed the aide aside, out of the chair. He scurried away, and Sherlock took his place. He opened the email, saw the customary message.

**Unrequited love is so painful, isn't it, Sherlock? **

Sherlock queued up the video, and hit play. He stood back up, and backed away, facing the largest screen, getting the best view he could. This farewell was the most important. He would not fail Molly again; he would do his best to avenge her.

Molly was alone on screen, huddled on the stool, shivering. She looked cold, her skin paler than usual, her hands shaking as she clutched a water bottle, half empty. She kept looking past the camera, then back down to the floor. Like a child afraid to speak in front of her class.

Molly took a sip from her bottle, and gathered her courage as best she could. Her eyes lifted to the camera, wincing slightly, as if she was looking in Sherlock's eyes, and not the lens.

"My name is Molly Hooper." She gasped. Her fingers were making the plastic of the bottle crinkle loudly. "I am a pathologist and coroner for St Bart's Hospital. I have worked with Sherlock Holmes for several years. I helped him escape Moriarty on the rooftop. Death says I am not to blame, as I only did what I did because I'm in love with you, Sherlock."

Molly looked down, hands wringing. "And you love another, instead of me."

"So I am to die, to drown you with guilt, for taking such shameless advantage of me, using me to further your own ends. Because Death sees what I really mean to you. My death couldn't hurt you unless you actually cared, so her taking me is proof, I suppose."

Molly wavered, her balance on the stool precarious. Death calmly walked into the picture, and put a steadying hand on Molly's shoulder. Molly looked at her, and blinked slowly.

"Say what you want now, dear. Soon it'll be too late." Death's voice was low, and somehow kind. Molly took another sip of water, the bottle nearly empty, and looked back at the camera.

"Sherlock, I do love you, very much. You were at first a crush, a hopeless dream. Perfect in all the ways I wanted, what I needed. But I knew you were just a dream, an empty wish. You weren't meant for me, but for John. That never stopped me from loving you. Don't be sad, you are worth loving. I regret none of it. Even though I tried to be with someone else, my last thoughts are of you."

"Sherlock?" Molly whispered, and the bottle fell from her grasp, the last drops spilling across the floor. She struggled to stay upright, and Death wrapped her arms around the faltering woman. Molly's head fell back on Death's shoulder, and her eyes latched on to Death's. Her last whisper was low, but came though clearly.

"You have his eyes." Molly sighed. Her eyes shut, and she went limp.

Death lifted a hand to Molly's face, brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. Her fingers slid slowly down to Molly's neck, and hovered over the artery, fingers falling away after a moment's pause.

Death looked down at the floor, and nudged the empty water bottle with her black boot. She lifted her eyes to the camera. The truth of Molly's passing was spilled out on the floor, those last few drops. In her eyes, Sherlock saw a swirling madness. Eyes that looked into him, all the way down to his core.

Molly had died quietly in the arms of Death.


	29. Deception, Part II

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me. **

**WARNING: Extreme violence, serious heart ache, and if you have been very brave in reading this all the way through, an emotional Hallelujah at the end. **

**This is the second half of the chapter named Deception. Broken in two due to the size.**

**Thank you to all my followers, reviewers, and everyone who has stopped by to just take a look. **

**Read, enjoy, review!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty Nine<strong>

"_**Deception, Part II"**_

Sherlock let the video end, the silence in the large room strangely loud. John standing nearby, not touching him, tears running unchecked down his cheeks. Sherlock had watched the whole video as dispassionately as he could, but he found himself distracted. Molly's whisper had distracted him from the horror of her painless death. By the eyes of Molly's killer. They were so familiar. He knew them somehow.

Sherlock didn't hear the alarms coming from another station. He didn't see the MI6 agents pull up the CCTV videos, the city dark from the moonless night, overcast by heavy cloud cover, rain misting on the streets of London.

Sherlock was hunting for something, a clue so vital he could almost taste it. Molly's passing was a wound bleeding him out, but he stepped away from the pain. Rage and a lust for vengeance tore at his concentration. He strove for the temporary peace that Molly's ghost had given him, but it was all too much. He let it slip, determined to come back too it, now that he had all the time in the world to kill the woman responsible for so much cruelty. So much pain.

Her hostages were dead. The buffer between her and his retribution was gone. She had done so on purpose. She wanted a fight, a bloody battle. Death wanted a war. She would get one.

John had pulled himself from his grief, and was wiping his eyes on his sleeve. Sherlock looked to his lover, and knew with every fiber of his being that John would not share the women's fate. He wouldn't let it happen.

"Sir?" It was that aide again.

"What?" Sherlock growled, voice deep with his anger.

"We got a hit on facial recognition. Just now, sir."

Sherlock felt his rage roar in his heart, blood lust pulling him forward. Sherlock went to the station where the CCTV feeds were being analyzed. John followed, and Sherlock grabbed him close, his inner demons screaming at Sherlock to keep John safe. John didn't fight his tight grip, he let Sherlock hold him.

The video was of a dark wet street on the outskirts of London, just at the last CCTV camera station. The rain was falling, the wind carrying it down hard on the small figure struggling to her feet. A dark car had slowed just enough for her be thrown out, before the door slammed, and it disappeared down the unlit street.

The aides zoomed the feed in, and they watched in real time as Mary Morstan climbed to her feet, using the wall on the building she had fallen against. The camera zoomed in closer, and Sherlock felt John tense up at the sight of her face.

The entire left side of her face was heavily bruised, her eye dark, cheekbone bloody, lip split, and she was holding her side with one arm. They watched as she convulsed, and vomited on the sidewalk. Her long black coat barely shielded her from the rain, she was soaked to the bone in seconds. She leaned against the brick wall, and shook from head to toe. Her head fell back, and the horrible contrast between the undamaged half of her face to the nightmare side was extreme. Her bright blonde hair plastered to her skull, its light dulled.

"Dear God, what the hell happened?" John breathed, shock and fear flooding his eyes. John was pale. "Mary?"

Mary began to walk, shaking hard, almost dragging herself along the wall. She faltered several times, and eventually disappeared from view of the camera.

"Find her again, show me where she's going." Sherlock ordered. Something was off. He felt it.

The cameras switched, and the new view showed her walking to the corner, where the lights from an all-night medical clinic glowed. She fought the wind as it tried to drag her to the ground, crossing the distance to the front doors at a slow, painful pace.

"Sherlock, she's hurt, badly. She could be bleeding internally, for her to vomit like that. She needs help." John said, making as if to leave.

Sherlock's hand snapped out, and locked around John's wrist. John stared at him in surprise, his eyes wide. "Sherlock, she's in serious trouble. That clinic isn't equipped to help her. I don't care what she's done, she needs help."

"John. No." Sherlock growled at his lover, making John's face go blank in shock. "John, this is a trap."

"What the hell do you mean, a trap? How the hell do you know? For all we know, Mary tried to stop Death from killing the girls, and that's what she did to her!" John was shouting, fear clouding his eyes. Part of him was refusing to believe, the stronger part of him screaming at him to go help her.

"John. Stop." Sherlock yanked him back, his grip unrelenting on John's arm. "If that was the case, Mary would be dead. She would not be dropped off at a medical clinic, on the far side of town, _directly under our cameras!"_ Sherlock spit the words out, fear forcing him to be blunt. Cruel.

"She is being hunted by the Americans. She is a wanted woman. An assassin. No matter how badly injured she may be, she would never allow herself to be exposed like this. This is a trap. _It's a trap for you!"_ Sherlock was shouting back at him, conviction pouring from him in waves.

John was struck dumb, his eyes alternating between the woman struggling into the clinic, and his lover. Sherlock was pale, his eyes lit from within, fear and anger obvious.

"She knows you well. That no matter how mad you may be at her, the second she is need of _medical attention_, your instincts to help would kick in. You don't care about whether someone deserves your help, all you care about is saving the life." Sherlock wasn't yelling, but his eyes held John captive, each word being driven home. John felt doubt, in the face of Sherlock's logic. John looked at the video feed, where Mary had stepped into the clinic. Only a few minutes had passed, but John felt like it was an eternity. Sherlock was right. He was always right.

John dropped his head in defeat. He let Sherlock pull him to his chest, and John wrapped his arms around his detective. Sherlock kissed his temple, and spoke over his head.

"Scan the surrounding areas, look for unusual activity. Something suggesting an assault. Five block radius around the clinic. You know what to look for. Do it." Sherlock ordered, and the aides in the room scurried to obey.

"Call up the security teams. I want a team stationed here, two more ready to go as soon as possible. Death is waiting on us."

"She wants you John, and I'm not giving her a chance at you. You're staying here, in this room. No one can get in here, not even the Prime Minister. She cannot get you. This was meant to draw us out, draw you out so she could get you. I'll meet her out there, and use her own trap against her." Sherlock whispered in his ear.

"Sherlock no, let the teams handle this." John lifted his head, meeting his detective's eyes.

"My dear Dr Watson, I have hunted disciples for two years. Let me slay this last one. It is what I'm good at." Sherlock let slip some of his arrogance, pulling a small smile from John at his attitude.

"Dammit, Sherlock. I will kill you if you get hurt." John was terrified. Sherlock kissed him, his mouth demanding, urgent. Sherlock kissed him like they were alone, in their bedroom, with nothing but time on their side. All the time in the world to kiss forever.

"I love you, John Watson." Sherlock whispered against his lips, dipping back in to finish a kiss that should never end.

"Sir, security teams are en route. One stationed here inside the building, and two to go with you." The aide said, and coughed when Sherlock didn't raise his head from John's lips. "They'll be here in ten."

"Send someone for my brother, and DI Lestrade. Inform them of what's going on." Sherlock had pulled back from John reluctantly, his lips clinging until the last second. John's eyes were glazed over just a bit, and Sherlock smiled, despite all the pain of the last week. Sherlock stepped back from John, and addressed the remaining aides.

"I'll need my gear, I left it here last month." Sherlock's orders were sending aides scurrying like mice when a light was turned on; the bunker door opening and shutting, feet running, bodies bumping into each other. "Status updates on the perimeter of the clinic, alert local police to stay out of the area. I need the team leaders here ASAP."

John had never seen Sherlock like this. Orders were flying from him with the ease of long practice. His voice, while always commanding, now had an edge to it. Experience tempered the younger Holmes.

Sherlock didn't even react when Mycroft and Lestrade stumbled into the room. Sherlock cast a quick look over his brother, and the DI. Both were tired, haggard looking, and Mycroft was struggling to maintain his composure. Lestrade looked the better of the two, though Sherlock knew that wouldn't last long. Not once he was told about Molly. It was obvious that whichever aide had gone for them refrained from imparting the news of Molly Hooper's death.

"Sherlock, what's going on? They said you found Mary." Lestrade asked, as Mycroft sat nearby.

"Indeed. Mary is currently playing bait for Death's trap to capture John. I am going to use it to capture both of them instead. Perhaps even kill Death if I get the chance."

"Mycroft, John is staying here. I will not let him be captured by Death. She wants him; my demise is required only after she makes me suffer from watching John die first. You two are staying in here, as well."

"Am I?" Mycroft murmured, a shadow of his usual sarcasm attempting to come back to the surface.

"Yes, you are." Sherlock turned to two aides, who were carrying several large black duffel bags into the bunker. Sherlock motioned for them to drop them on the tables, and he tore into them. Guns, knives, electronic equipment, bullet proof vests, Sherlock flung them all out onto the tables.

John moved to Lestrade's side, his hand on the DI's elbow. Greg looked at him, his tired face lined by grief. He seemed to know already, from the pain in John's eyes. Greg closed his eyes, and bit his lip. There comes a point when it is impossible for the human body to suffer more pain, emotional and physical. Greg Lestrade was there. He merely stood there, broken, and let the pain of Molly's passing wash over him. She had been a friend for many years, longer than Sherlock. And her loss hurt just as badly as Donovan's.

John was at a loss. He felt useless, restricted by the actions of others. John knew that Sherlock was right. If he stepped out of this house, Death would attempt to capture him. And most likely succeed. Sherlock had shrugged out of his jacket, and was in the process of strapping on a bullet proof vest. It was black, like the rest of his gear, and as minimal as you could get without it being useless. John recognized it as a style meant for fast combat, so as not to restrict movement. He was struggling with getting it to fit, and John saw him flinch slightly as he moved his arms back. His ribs were still recovering from being broken the month before.

John went to Sherlock's side, and brushed his hands away. His detective looked at him in mild unease, not expecting help. John knew his way around this equipment; he was no stranger to combat. John concentrated on his hands, knowing if he looked away, he'd start weeping. Actions to focus himself, to stop the pain inside.

"Sherlock, let me." John knew better than to ask Sherlock to stay. Sherlock was the best suited of all of them to capture Death and Mary. He was more than a match for both. "Stop it, I'll fix it."

John adjusted the vest, tightening the straps, aligning the Velcro. "Weapons? I'm hoping you say yes, by the way."

"I'd ask for your gun, but I'd rather that stay with you." Sherlock murmured. John caught his eye, and saw a glimmer of something deep in his detective' eyes. Something that made John happy despite the horrible day. He felt weird for feeling it, as if he were committing a sin. Happiness shouldn't be felt along grief.

"Well, I know you; you'll want your hands clear. Nothing big, no shotgun. Handgun, that one there ought to do nicely." John grabbed the gun, checking to make sure it was loaded. He attached the holster around Sherlock's hip and thigh, letting the weight of the weapon rest on the leg, and not his lover's ribs. "You won't be leading the way in, will you? That vest makes it a bad idea if you are."

"Um, no. I'll be letting the security teams go first. Since my military advisor seems to think I shouldn't." John didn't even blink at Sherlock's comment, just kept adjusting Sherlock's gear. He strapped a knife to Sherlock's other thigh, the blade long and wicked.

Sherlock's hands were up away from his sides, letting John fix his gear, and he made no noise of complaint. His doctor's hands were quick, efficient, and moved with the ease of a man who knew his way around weapons. It served to remind him that no matter how many times people underestimated John Watson (himself included, ashamedly so), the man was more than a doctor; he was a soldier, too.

"John?" Sherlock whispered, as John made his final adjustments.

"Yeah?" John's voice was just as low.

"I should have taken you with me, after the Fall." John looked up at him. Their eyes met, held.

"Yes, you should have. But that's not important now."

John grabbed his shoulders, and kissed him firmly on the lips. "The team leaders are here, go plan your trap."

Sherlock raised a hand to his face, and brushed his thumb over John's cheek. "Yes sir, Captain Watson."

* * *

><p>"Mary, Sherlock is en route to your position. He has two security teams with him. John Watson is not with him." Death's voice whispered in her ear, through the ear bud that was almost invisible to the naked eye. Mary didn't reply, just nodded slightly. She was next to the front window of the reception area, waiting on the doctor to see her. Death had people watching, across the street on the roof. So far, so good. Exactly as planned.<p>

"Miss Morstan?" The nurse was at the door, and Mary stood up slowly. She avoided eye contact with the other people in the room, making sure not to draw attention to them. They were all waiting too, though not for the doctor. She had six men in the building already, six more waiting around the building, and six more outside of that, dispersed. She knew Sherlock would see the six outside the building, as they were being deliberately bad at being not obvious. He most likely saw the men within the building, the ones out in the reception area. Mary knew there was no way he saw the others, as they had been in place for hours. They would come in behind Sherlock's assault teams, and lock them in.

Mary smiled. She had Sherlock outnumbered. He had two teams, which meant twelve men. Eighteen men to his twelve. And she had her pocket aces. Mary struggled not to smile, as satisfaction swept through her. Death was a genius.

Mary followed behind the nurse, and as soon as the door to the reception room shut behind them, Mary roped her arm around the woman's neck. She dug in deep, the sleeper hold knocking her out within seconds. Mary dragged her to the end of the hall, and tied her up with the zip ties she pulled from her coat. She didn't even bother trying to hide the unconscious woman; Mary swept into the patient's rooms one by one, clearing them, and she left the doors open as she went down the hall. She reached the end, and kicked in the door. The doctor didn't even have time to be surprised before Mary took him out with her Taser, the voltage snapping loudly in the room.

Mary ejected the used cartridge, and tossed it at the doctor's quivering body. She grabbed his collar, and pulled him to the side. She kicked him in the head, insuring he stay down. Mary replaced the spent cartridge, and put the Taser back, inside her coat, under her arm. Her Beretta was still snugly in place, and she had no intention of using it, unless this whole op went sideways. Mary had another surprise in mind for Sherlock, which hung in wait along her back, under her coat. Death's present was heavy, but Mary didn't mind. Sherlock most definitely would though. Mary grinned, her bruised face stretching painfully. She was thoroughly enjoying herself.

Mary put a finger to the ear bud, and spoke. "Death, I'm in, civilians disabled. Waiting on Holmes in target location."

"Copy that, dear. Will advise when he arrives." Death replied.

Mary looked around the room, making sure she hadn't missed anything. This location had been scouted out days ago, and vetted before Death chose this as her ambush. She walked to the door, and she stumbled. Mary caught herself along the wall, and fought her stomach. Nausea overrode her insides, and she struggled not to be sick on the floor.

She breathed in through her nose, and out slowly through her mouth. Again. Her stomach subsided, and Mary was left dazed. She had thrown up on the sidewalk, and Mary had blessed her stomach bug for adding to her performance. But now she wondered. Wondered if she was really sick at all. Wondered if it was her heart trying to tell her that what she was doing was the wrong thing, or if something else entirely was at fault….

Mary's heart contracted, her heart rate jumping. Adrenaline coursed through her, and she realized with a thought as powerful as a lightning strike that she had been an idiot. _How blind can I be?_

Mary touched her ear bud, and asked for a status check on Sherlock's approach.

"He's ten minutes out. Standby."

Ten minutes. Mary spun around, and ran for the cabinets, slamming open the doors, and closing them just as quickly when she didn't see what she needed. She kept checking, her heart in her throat.

_A clinic this small won't send out for blood tests, they'll use the store kits first….. Where are they? Yes!_

Mary tore open the pregnancy kit, and locked the door. The test took five minutes. She would know in six if she would be working to kill John Watson, or save him. Sherlock living through this would depend on whether he came to kill her.

* * *

><p>John watched the operation unfold on the screens, Lestrade beside him, Mycroft back in his chair next to the computers. Everything was quiet, as most of the aides had been dismissed by Mycroft. Only a few were left, the great room absorbed by the action on screen. Mycroft had most of his composure back, unless you looked him in the eyes, and you saw nothing but pain. Mycroft was pretending, acting like he was fine. Much the same with Lestrade. John had lost friends in combat, and his mind automatically compartmentalized the agony, and let him function. Never mind that his heart was broken, so badly damaged by the last few days he feared he might never heal from it.<p>

The recon team had reported seeing nine men, plus Mary. A sniper on the roof across from the clinic, five men outside the clinic, and three on the inside. Mary was now out of the reception area, and presumably in with the doctor. There was no sign of Death anywhere.

Sherlock had looked disappointed, but then declared that capturing Mary would be the next best thing. She would lead them to Death soon enough. John had been alarmed, and part of him was afraid of what Sherlock meant.

"Death was the woman in the park, John. Mary helped Death evade the surveillance teams. Magnussen sells out Mary for information on Mycroft, and within days CAM Tower is blown up, and Magnussen presumed dead? John, Mary is involved, completely." Sherlock's voice flashed at John from his memory, before he had kissed his love goodbye, the bunker door sealing shut behind him.

"Sir, strike team is on site. They expect to breach in three minutes." The aide said, the same one who had been present through the last few days. He was listening to all the radio frequencies, and the video coming from the CCTV feeds, and the cameras mounted on the strike team's weapons. Sherlock had refused a video mounted weapon, opting instead for a radio uplink directly to the bunker, so John and the others could hear him, and not have it filtered through the rest of the chatter.

John watched the varying screens, his breath catching as he caught random shots of Sherlock among the strike team. His lover looked like a different person; his hair brushed back away from his eyes, the bullet proof vest and weapons nearly invisible in the blackness. His face had a focus to it that John had never seen before; this Sherlock was capable of killing. The only things that were the same were the flash of Sherlock's bright eyes, and the black coat he'd thrown over it all.

"Understood." Mycroft murmured, watching for glimpses of his brother.

"John….." Sherlock's voice whispered out over the sound system, loud in the bunker, but quiet where he was.

"I can hear you, Sherlock." John replied, hitting the radio button on his end.

"I won't kill her unless she forces me too."

John swallowed, fear and regret chasing his heart as it beat faster.

"Please be careful." It was all John could say.

* * *

><p>"Mary, he's there. One minute. I'm a go. Starting my phase. I'll be waiting for word from you." Death whispered in her ear, startling Mary from her shock. Death's voice was gone as quickly as it had come; Death's part of the plan was in motion, and Mary had to hold up her end now. She had to go through with this, or everything was lost.<p>

Mary shoved her reaction down, stuffing the test stick into her coat pocket. She threw the box in the sink on the counter, out of sight. She ran to the door, unlocking it, before heading back to the exam table in the rear of the room. She listened, as Sherlock's team breached the front doors of the clinic, disabling the men in the front room. He would be taking out the five around the outside of the building. Her hidden three were nearby, in the unseen attic space above the clinic, just over the reception area. They would wait on her signal. And she had her other hidden advantage, her 'pocket aces', planted by Death days ago. Mary grinned, knowing it would all be over soon.

Three down. Step one done. Mary's outer-lying ring of six would have started in at the same time Sherlock took out the sniper on the roof. And he wouldn't be breaching unless he had. She listened as his team swept into the hall, the calls they made as the found the knocked out nurse. Her door was the only one closed, and they knew she would be in here. Her six men should be outside any minute, all she had to do was stall Sherlock until they alerted her to their presence. And it wouldn't be subtle.

Mary pulled out her Taser, and put it on the exam table next to her. Her coat still covered her, and she felt behind her hip, to where Death's gift was, a shotgun hanging gently from her shoulders on a retractable sling. She pulled her hand away from the shotgun just as she heard the charmingly polite knock on the door.

* * *

><p>John was captivated, nerves holding his attention to the screen. He saw Sherlock's men breach the clinic, both on the CCTV cameras, and the videos from the strike team cameras. Sherlock stayed near the back of the group, letting the teams take down the sniper, and the men outside the clinic. Mary's people folded instantly, only a handful needing to be put down. The rest were disarmed, and John watched the cameras for Sherlock.<p>

"Her men are down. Approaching the last room, only place she can be." Sherlock's voice came clearly over the radio. John felt the insane urge to laugh when he heard Sherlock knock on the door.

* * *

><p>Death stood in the center of the street outside Mycroft Holmes' townhouse, smirking at the Old World elegance of the entranceway. <em>What a shame I'm going to blow it up. Feel the flames, Mycroft Holmes.<em>

"Gentlemen, if you would knock please." Death asked her six, and they flowed forward through the shadows, taking down the two guards out front. They had thought themselves well hidden, but her sharp eyes had caught them quickly.

The building was secured, from the inside. Sherlock had ordered the building cleared of unessential staff, and had a security team on site. Two were down. Four remained. And Death had her own advantage inside, much as Mary had hers.

Her men attached the block of C4 to the front door, and Death ducked around the van she and her team had arrived in.

"_Bring it down!" _She screamed, giving her rage an outlet at last. The explosion rocked the very earth under her feet.

* * *

><p>John felt the tremors, even from an entire level away. The lights flickered, but stayed on, and dust fell from the ceiling. Alarms began to sound, ringing loudly in the stone room.<p>

"What the hell?" John asked, and suddenly Mycroft was free from his stupor, and running to another set of computers. He activated the screens, and John watched as he brought up the security cameras surrounding his house. Only a few were working, most of the screens showing the snow of dead cameras. One inside the front foyer was working, and it showed flames, and a clear view out to the street. The doors were gone. Smoke filled the front of the house.

It was the fire out front that explained the tremor; it was if the fist of God had punched through the front door of Mycroft's home.

"She's here." Mycroft said, and pointed to the image. "Call for assistance, now."

Mycroft glared at the aide at the other station, who nodded fearfully and began to talk over his radio. Mycroft turned on the rest of the screens, and John saw different angles from within Mycroft's house.

"Shit. She's not alone." Lestrade was at Mycroft's side, and they all watched as the gorgeous form of Death walked through the flames, half a dozen shadowy figures following her through.

She lifted her shotgun to her shoulder, and fired twice, the weapon modified for automatic fire. Two figures hidden within the smoke and flames fell, unseen until her bullets dropped them to the ground. She hadn't even stopped walking, her stride unbroken.

"Christ." John said, and reached behind his back for his gun. He pulled it free, and clicked off the safety.

"She cannot get in here, Dr Watson. Relax. All we need to do is wait for backup. We can catch her as she tries to blow through that door. I doubt she brought enough explosives for that." Mycroft walked back to the other station, as John faced the security feeds that showed her progress through the house. The alarms went quiet, and John was thankful.

"I hope you're right, nothing is stopping her." John growled, his pulse jumping as she neatly shot another hidden guard, her single shot placed with frightening precision. She was over their heads now, seconds from turning the bend in the hall, and making the stairs to the bunker door.

This was too easy, even for her.

"This whole thing was a trap, all of it. Get ahold of Sherlock, now!" John shouted.

"What do you mean, you've lost the strike teams?" Mycroft was nearly yelling, and John looked over his shoulder.

"Sir, the explosion must have caused damage to the outer systems. Everything is fine in here, it's all the equipment outside this room that's the issue." The aide said, his face showing his fear.

"Did you get the call out for help?"

"Yes sir, I think so." The aide stammered.

John was watching the screens now, and he felt a strange mix of awe and sick fear as he watched Death disarm and kill the last guard. Her long silver knife flashed in the low lights of the hall outside the bunker, ending his life brutally. Her men hadn't even fired a shot. All they did was watch her back. Death had walked into the heart of Mycroft Holmes' house as if she owned it.

"It doesn't matter, she's here." John said, and he turned to the door, angling so he could watch the camera over the bunker door, and the door itself from his side. She looked up at the camera, and John watched as she blew a kiss right at him.

* * *

><p>Mary smiled, and settled more comfortably against the exam table.<p>

"Come in, Sherlock." She said, letting her voice sound as it once had, years ago, her British accent falling away.

The door slowly creaked open, and she met Sherlock's wary eyes. His face was hard, free of color. His hair was back from his face, and Mary smiled wider as she saw the vest under his coat, the weapons at his sides.

"That's a new look, Sherlock. Very Bond." Mary quipped, her American accent filling the room.

Sherlock slowly stepped in, eyeing her hand where it rested next to the Taser on the table. She kept her other hand down, away from her back. He wouldn't be able to see the shotgun as long as she didn't move towards it. He hadn't drawn a weapon, but the two men at his back had, their guns up, and aimed her heart. They stayed behind him, but had a clear line of fire.

"Hello, Mary. You've looked better." Sherlock's words were polite, but his voice was dark and ominous, threat radiating from him. "And it's nice to hear how you really sound. Lovely accent, from the Deep South of the States, yes? I'd love to chat, but I have a friend of yours I need to kill."

"Georgia, you have a good ear. And Death, you mean? Good luck, better men than you have tried." Mary smirked, and wiggled her fingers next to the Taser. Sherlock's eyes darted to her hand, then back to her eyes quickly.

"Not much you can do with that, Mary. I've got you at a disadvantage." Sherlock stepped in further, only a few feet between them now.

"Apparently you've had me at a disadvantage for months, Sherlock." Mary let slip her smile, her eyes glittering with anger. "Hard to compete with the great Sherlock Holmes, even when he's supposed to be fucking dead."

"Mary, tell me where Death is, now." Sherlock ignored her jab, and Mary growled low in her throat.

"Oh no, Sherlock. We're having it out right here and now, you back stabbing bastard." Mary nearly shouted at him, her voice cracking in rage and pain. "You fucking stole him from me! I saved him after you fucking broke him, left him in ruins!"

Sherlock didn't react, but for the slightest of twitches next to his eye. Mary saw it, and did her best to bring it out again. She hadn't heard the signal yet, and her heart was demanding she vent her agony.

"John was a hollow shell of a man, one I took months to repair! He didn't even live, he just existed!" She was crying, her tears stinging on her bruised and bloody cheek. "I found someone to love, after decades of nothing but death and blood, a good man whom I thought loved me back."

Sherlock winced, the movement tiny, but still there. She saw it, and her heart screamed at her to keep going. All of it then, let him hear it all. The words tumbled free, and her fingers inched closer to the Taser. His eyes saw it, but he did nothing, not worried about her weapon against the guns pointed at her heart.

"I spent decades killing for men who cared nothing for me. I had only loneliness and the stench of death following me through the years, the hollow sound of gunfire my lullaby. I had no youth, no life, no comfort of a loving touch, missing the embrace of a caring man's arms. And then I manage to survive my retirement, escape to this rainy island of a nation, and spend years living a peaceful life."

She let the tears fall freely, and she refused to drop her eyes from his. "And then a miracle happened. I fell in love with a man, someone just as damaged as me. And by healing him I saved myself. I saved what was left of my soul. I gave it all to John Watson, you bastard. I gave him the rest of my fractured heart, what remained of the woman I used to be. I gave him who I could have been, if not for the foolish choices of a blood-thirsty, damaged child."

She was sobbing around her words now, and Sherlock had lost the hardness from his expression, his eyes holding hers as much as she was holding his.

"And what hurts the most? The absolute most of all of this? Was that while I loved him more than anything- he never loved me back. He had only enough room in his heart for your ghost, and the affection he conjured for me." She spit out those words, her anger welling up. "You waltz back into John's life, _and without even trying, he was yours again._"

"And when he left, he took all the good I had given him, all the tiny parts of my soul- he took it all away when he left me for you." She was panting now, empty. Her rage was fading, leaving the cold hard reality of her situation screaming at her. She fought the urge to draw her Beretta, and a part of her was damning the knowledge of what the test had shown her. She was trapped, by her choices, and a rapidly disappearing future.

"Mary." Sherlock's voice was softer, deeper, the rough edge of anger smoothed out. "Mary, I'm…"

"Don't you dare fucking apologize to me." She interrupted him, and grabbed at the Taser. She didn't lift it, just let her hand wrap around the grip. Sherlock's eyes darted down to her hand, and then back to her eyes.

"Mary, don't. I don't want to kill you. This can all be over, just come with me willingly. Help me stop Death." Sherlock asked, slowly lifting one hand towards her.

"It's too late Sherlock." Mary heard the crackle in her ear, and Sherlock was close enough to see her react to something. His eyes widened, but it was too late. The floor beneath their feet shook, and a crashing came from the front of the building. Gunfire erupted outside the building and from the front rooms.

"_Now!" _She shouted, as Sherlock went for his weapon.

He was too slow; the two men Death had planted among Mycroft's security teams dropped their guns from her heart, and kicked at the back of Sherlock's knees. She whipped her free hand under her coat as Sherlock fell, lifting the shotgun. She fired once, straight for his chest, catching him over the heart as he fell to his knees.

* * *

><p>"Are you certain she can't get in here?" John asked. He was watching Death, as she stared straight through the camera. "What the hell is she doing?"<p>

"I don't know Dr Watson, she appears to be waiting for something." Mycroft said, standing at his shoulder, looking at the same image.

"Is she waiting for our help to get here?" Lestrade asked. John frowned, and looked at the gun in his hands, his grip firm and sure despite the racing of his heart. He didn't like this, being trapped by a madwoman, no matter how lovely she may be.

"Somehow I don't think they're coming." John said.

Death had her hand to her ear, as if listening to an ear bud radio. She was still, and then she started to laugh. Her face was maniacal, all sanity stripped away by whatever she had heard. She spun on the balls of her feet like a child dancing, her braid whipping behind her in her crazy joy.

She pulled a radio from her vest, and spoke into it. She put the radio away, and her other hand came up, touching something in the wall outside the bunker.

"Hello, John." Death's voice tore through the bunker, and her laughter echoed from the corners of the room. "Are you ready to go?"

"Oh Christ." John said, and she laughed, having heard him somehow. The audio systems had activated in the room, and he clamped his mouth shut.

"I'm coming in John." She said, and her voice was like cold fire, burning his ears.

"Seriously? You brought enough explosives to get through that door? Without destroying the house over your head?" John shouted, knowing he didn't need to, but feeling better all the same.

"I don't need explosives, dear. I was born with what I need." Death raised her hand, slowly. She placed her hand flat on the access panel, and waited. The line of light appeared, and scanned her palm. No one looked to see what name flashed on the computer screens as her ID processed, so shocked were they all.

"Oh shit." John breathed.

The lights flashed green, and the men in the room looked on in astonishment as the bunker's locks released. John lifted his gun, and moved towards the door. He was one man against seven armed killers, and he wasn't going down without a fight.

_Sherlock, I love you. I'm so sorry._

* * *

><p>Her shot caught him over the heart, pushing him back over his knees, his back slamming into the floor. The two guards dived in, and ripped his gun and knife away. They pulled back, and Sherlock blinked past the agony to see Mary standing over him.<p>

He couldn't breathe, his ribs were on fire, and pain radiated out from his chest. Mary stepped closer, the shotgun pointed at his heart. Her face was blank, the tears and pain gone. She let go of the shotgun, and it disappeared under her coat like magic.

He struggled for air, and saw spots floating in his eyes, the lack of oxygen pulling him under.

"Aaahhhh, there's the issue. Let me help you, Sherlock." Mary said, her voice low. She straddled his hips, and sat on him, ripping at the vest on his chest. She pulled at the Velcro, and as she did, he felt his lungs expand.

He pulled in air, and marveled at the fact he was still alive. His confusion and fear must have been obvious because she smiled. She reached past his face, and picked something off the floor. It was black, and about the size of a squash ball. It was soft, and moved weirdly as she flipped it in the air.

"Bean bag cartridge, designed to be fired from a shotgun. We call them riot guns back in the States, used by the police a lot. Non-lethal, but very nasty. Nifty toy, Death gave it to me." Mary smiled down at him, and she raised the Taser up in her other hand, and pressed it to his neck. Her eyes went to the men at the door. "Secure the rest of the building, make sure no one escaped."

They nodded, and melted away silently. Mary dropped her eyes back to Sherlock, and he was helpless, barely able to pull in enough air to stay awake, much less speak. She seemed to know, and dropped the bean bag. Her hand slipped under the vest, and rubbed up along his ribs. He jumped as she got to the impact point, and she chuckled.

"Broken ribs, several of them. Seems I was a little too close to be shooting you like this, but too late now. Sprained several muscles. Hard to move for a bit." Her hand dipped lower, towards his older injuries. "And some more! Poor Sherlock, looks like I broke you."

_This was a trap, but never for John. She came for me. Death has gone for John. JOHN! Molly's death wasn't meant to cripple me, it was meant to make me too angry to see what was going on. She blinded me with my rage._

Sherlock glared at her, anger and fear pushing past the pain. She saw, and dug in with the Taser.

"Behave, and listen to me. They're coming back now." She leaned over him, and put her lips to his ear. "I was tasked with disabling you, and keeping you from the townhouse. It's too late to stop her, but you can follow. Find Blackwood, Sherlock, and you'll find Death. The river, you'll always see the river." Sherlock heard footsteps in the hall, mere feet from the doorway. "Look in your pocket. I'll help if I can."

With that she lifted from him, just as the two men returned. She stepped back, and fired the Taser. The last thing he saw before he succumbed to the lack of air and the voltage was Mary's eyes. The pain was gone, and a new fire burned from within.

* * *

><p>The bunker door opened slowly, every inch a torture of anticipation. Death was giddy, excited beyond measure. She would finally get to meet John face to face, not just sighted down the barrel of her rifle.<p>

Her men were at her back, their weapons up. Death dropped her shotgun, letting the retractable harness pull it around to her back. She had her knife, and she flipped it in the air, spinning it as she caught it, tossing it back up. It was a habit from her teenage years, and she did it when she got really excited. Like now. She didn't even notice the blood droplets her spinning knife was sending out on the walls, the floor.

Death stepped in, and held up her hand to stop her men. John Watson had his gun out, pointed right between her eyes. She wasn't bothered; if she died now, her torment would be over, and she would be with James again. Just the thought settled her nerves, and she walked forward, unafraid.

Watson's eyes were locked on hers, and he tightened his grip as she neared. She saw no trace of fear in him. His stance and posture showed he knew how to use a weapon, and the steadiness of his gaze told her he had killed. She held his gaze, and let her mask slip. She saw herself in his reaction; his face grew pale, his eyes harder, and he looked quite eager to pull the trigger. Death could never see what others saw in her, the madness. Objectively, she knew she was insane, but for her, it was normal. James had been much the same.

She stopped a few feet from Watson. His gun was pointed at her head, and she could still see his eyes. She twirled the bloody knife in her hand, impressed when he ignored it, focusing only on her.

"Go ahead, John." She said, and lowered the knife. She slipped it slowly into its sheath on her thigh, and raised her hands, spread wide and shoulder height. "I miss him with every breath I take. Kill me."

His breathed in, surprise in his eyes. He didn't say anything. John kept his eyes on hers, and she saw him realize how much she truly didn't mind dying. It happened often, that realization, and it crippled many. Who wouldn't be terrified when confronted by someone who didn't fear death? Not bravery, but total, utter lack of fear. Death poured her willingness to take that bullet into her gaze, and John saw it all. Time slowed between them, and Death saw him struggle.

The men behind him moved forward, and one of them came close. Mycroft Holmes, Greg Lestrade and one of the aides were within feet of her, and her men were still standing in the doorway of the bunker, yards away. The face of the police man was all rage, and he looked as if he wanted nothing more than for John to pull the trigger. Mycroft Holmes was silent, eyes darting between the doctor, her, and her men waiting patiently at the door. He was emotionless, unless you saw the tiny tremors in his fingers; he wanted her dead, too.

Death stood helpless before John Watson, and she saw the conflict in his eyes. John wanted to kill her, he truly did, but he couldn't kill her as she stood, begging him to die. She was weaponless, a woman in front of him, hands up in surrender. The torture, and great weakness, of the moral man.

She sighed, and fought to hold back her delight as her inside man got closer to the good doctor. The click of the gun in her man's hands was unexpected, to say the least. He had used her dramatic entrance well, and moved himself into position. The aide spun, aligning his stance with her, facing the men standing at John's back. He raised his gun to Mycroft Holmes' face, and Death reined in her delight as the other men in the room tensed in dismay. The aide that had been abused, bullied, and otherwise overwhelmed the last week disappeared, and in his place stood a man well bought and paid for.

"Shall I fire, my lady?" He asked, and Death watched as John Watson's eyes dragged from hers, and took in the sight of her man holding his lover's brother at gunpoint.

"That's up to John, really. Is he going to kill Mycroft, John?" She asked softly. She heard her men move into the room, and arrange themselves behind her. John looked back at her, still pointing the gun at her head.

"Damn you." He whispered, and John lowered the gun. She stepped forward those last few steps, and gently tugged it from his hands. She held the gun out behind her without looking, and one of her men took it from her hand.

Death slid her hand up John's arm, loving the way he shook, anger and disgust at her touch so very obvious on his face. She put her hand behind his head, and stepped into him, her body pressed tightly to his, no space for air between them. His shoulders were strong, and he was all muscles, surprising in a man of his height. She dipped her head, her lips brushing against his ear.

He stood still, hands made into fists, and she could feel how much he wanted to push her away. The guns trained on all of them held him in check. She waited, as he conquered the urge to strike at her, his body relaxing.

"Come with me, John. The game's over." She whispered, and kissed his cheek.

"Take them down, gentlemen." Death pulled back, and caught John's hand, and she twined his unresisting fingers with her own. "Come along, dear."

Death tugged, and John moved, slowly. She pulled at him like he was a man dreading going clothes shopping, and she his overeager date. She pulled, until John stumbled behind her, away from his friends.

Her six moved forward on silent feet, half of them holding their weapons on the government men, while zip ties were produced, hands restrained. Holmes, Lestrade, and the remaining aides were all restrained, hands behind their backs, and dropped to their knees. Her bought man had lowered his gun, still facing his master, whose stare promised the traitor a special place in hell. Her six backed away, weapons up, sights trained on the hearts of the men on the floor.

John was glaring at her, his mouth a thin line. She saw his hatred, his rage, and she was very impressed at his control. Fear swam in his dark eyes as well, and Death stirred at the sight, this man's fear, his control, intoxicating.

"Oh, John, don't be so upset. Only one person is dying in here today, and it's not your friends."

She didn't even drop his hand, just held it tighter as her other hand went for the shotgun strapped to her back. He saw what she intended, and tried to stop her. She flipped her grip on his hand, and applied pressure, twisting until he dropped to his knees in front of her, a scream strangled in his chest. Her other hand pulled the shotgun up, and she took aim. One shot, booming like thunder off the stone walls.

Screams erupted from her hostages as the traitorous aide's head was blown apart by her shot, his body standing for a split second before slowly crumpling to the floor. Blood went everywhere, mostly on the kneeling men. Death laughed at their faces, and she released the shotgun to slide into its place on her back.

"He was no longer useful. Hope he already spent his money, what a waste if he hadn't." Death said to the man at her feet, helpless in her grasp. She saw John Watson's determination to kill her in his eyes, and she smiled, wondering if he would indeed be the one to end it all for her.

"You are just like him." John choked out, gasping as she pushed down harder.

"Thank you, dear."

One of her men approached, and she nodded to him, releasing John. Her man grabbed the doctor's arm, and he was zipped tied like the rest.

"Take him outside, I'll be along shortly." Death blew kisses at the enraged doctor, as her men dragged him from the room, kicking and cursing her the entire way.

Death was alone in the large bunker with her hostages, but for a single guard who took up a position by the door, unwilling to leave her alone. She didn't mind, and turned to her hostages. They just glared at her, and she walked to them, pulling her knife as she did. Mycroft Holmes didn't even flinch, and she was glad his reputation wasn't exaggerated.

"We will stop you. You will die." Mycroft said to her, his voice calm, free of emotion. She ignored him, as if he hadn't even spoken.

"Hello, Mycroft. Have you wondered what has happened to Sherlock by now? You must have." She said, and gently and very carefully dragged the tip of the blade down the side of his face. Not enough to cut, but just enough for him to know she could, easily.

Mycroft's eyes widened slightly, but his expression didn't change. Death pulled her radio from her vest, and the double-clicked the talk button.

"Death, Holmes is down." Came Mary's voice, almost immediately. "Returning to base."

Mycroft's face went white, and he struggled to stand, a shout of denial bursting forth. She kicked him, hard, in the chest. He fell to the floor on his back, and she caught movement from the corner of her eye. Lestrade was attempting to charge her. She spun the knife, and the edge kissed the skin of Lestrade's neck. He froze, and she moved gently, driving him back to his knees. The skin split just a hair, and a tiny drop of blood welled up.

"Copy that, dear. Mission complete on my end. See you at home." She replied, returning the radio to her vest. Her guard had come up behind her, and he was waiting patiently.

"This is the knife I used on Sally, dear Gregory. Shall I use it on you?" She whispered to the man at her feet. She drank in his anger, and the pain her words caused. His already pale face, strained by grief and despair, drained of any remaining color, and she saw something in his eyes. As if he wanted her to. Like he wanted to die. She saw it, and saw in him the fruition of her plan.

Death began to laugh, hysterical, tears running from her eyes.

"You shall all live, all of you! But for Sherlock, of course!" She gasped out between shouts of laughter, her free hand wiping tears from her face. "You shall live with your pain, your grief, as I have lived with mine. Knowing there is nothing you can do, nothing to stop the pain and helplessness. That once the person you love is gone, your life has no meaning."

Death pulled back the blade, and struck Lestrade over the head with the hilt. He dropped, limp. Mycroft struggled to get up, eyes on the man crumpled at her feet.

Death took one last look around, and nodded to herself. Almost over, all of it.

Death turned and left, the trussed up men as forgotten as the corpse bleeding out across the floor.

* * *

><p><em>John. Wake up! John!<em>

Sherlock couldn't breathe right. He woke up, choking, each spasm of his chest making his ribs stab at him like daggers.

His whole body was tingling, muscles vibrating like he was stuck in one of the wretched massaging beds found in cheap lodgings across the globe. He tried lifting a hand, an arm, anything, but the lack of air left him weak.

Mary had discharged the Taser's cartridge, leaving it and the long wires draped over him, the barbs still stuck in his chest.

_I have to roll on my side. I can breathe better if I roll over. Move! I have to get to John!_

Sherlock pushed as hard as he could with one arm, digging at the floor with a leg. It took him a minute, body shaking, ribs screaming in protest, but he managed to roll over. It hurt, but he felt his lungs open further, the pressure changed, letting his body get more oxygen. He fought for more air, his body recovering with each lungful.

He heard nothing from the rest of the building, but the scent of smoke, of freshly burning wood, was strong in the air. He look to the door, and saw no one. Sherlock went for his earpiece, pushing on it.

"John? Can you hear me? John!" Sherlock called, desperately needing to hear his doctor's voice. Hi voice was weak, and Sherlock coughed, so hard he almost blacked out from the pain. His vision came back, slowly, and he saw the blood on the floor. Tasted it on his tongue. He had blood in his lungs.

_Punctured lung… ribs…..John….. I'm sorry….._

Sherlock passed out, blood dripping from his lips.

* * *

><p>John couldn't see past the black cloth over his head, and his arms were straining under the tight grip of the zip ties, and the men who dragged him from the vehicle. The drive to wherever they were going was long, just over an hour. The familiar smell of the river was heavy in the air, but the scent was different, like it got when you were closer to the sea than the city, the wind racing across the ground.<p>

John was dragged into a building, the sound of the wind dying down, the cold air fading away. Wherever he was sounded big, echoes and distant sounds bouncing around. He found himself pushed on a stool, and the cloth was suddenly ripped away.

John blinked against the light, his eyes watering. His eyes focused on the two women standing in front of him. His heart quaked at the sight of Mary, her beautiful face beaten and bruised. She stood tall regardless, arms folded across her stomach. She avoided his eyes, instead looking down at the floor.

"Mary, how could you." John gasped out. "What did you do to Sherlock?"

"He's alive, for now." She said, and she finally looked him in the eye. John expected to see anger, hurt, anything to explain her actions. He saw nothing, as if she hid from him, even standing so near. Her blue eyes were crystalline bright, and he felt something stir in him at her gaze. He thought he knew her well, this woman he had loved, but the stranger in front of him was unreadable.

"He's alive for now? What the hell does that mean? _What did you do to him?!" _John shouted, trying to stand up, only to have a hand clamp down on his shoulder, holding him on the stool. "I break it off with you, because I thought it was the right thing to do, and you decide to hook up with Moriarty's ex-girlfriend and burn down London? _You get dumped and go insane?!"_

John didn't care that he was shouting, he didn't care that the woman standing beside Mary was getting enraged, her hand clenching into a fist. John didn't care. All he cared about was Sherlock, and that the woman he had loved, trusted, and tried to do right by had been nothing but one terrible, vicious lie.

"I loved you! I'm sorry I couldn't love you enough to stay, I couldn't do it! I refused to live a lie! But you, you were ready to lie to me forever! And this madwoman meets you up for a chat and you throw in with her for revenge?" John was shouting now, loudly. Everything he'd tried to let go of came out, and it didn't help any that Mary just stood there and took it. He would have been better off if she had gotten mad back at him, if she had responded in any way. But she didn't, just stood there, her eyes on his, her arms across her stomach, as he vented his hurt into the ballroom. Her refusal to respond just made it so much worse. "I was going to talk Sherlock out of killing you, I really was. I was willing to help you right up to the very end of this. I tried not to care, but seeing you broken and bleeding on the street was too much. I should have realized, I should have seen, that you are nothing but a lie, not worth trying to save!"

The blow caught him unprepared. Death's fist stuck him, hard, and he feel to his knees on the floor. His vision swam, face throbbing. He didn't care, he looked past the madwoman standing over him, her hand raised to strike again. He looked at Mary, who hadn't even reacted to Death striking him.

"_She killed Molly, you bitch! Molly!" _John roared, his anguish and anger finally striking a nerve. Mary flinched, but she lowered her arms. Her chin came up, and she narrowed her eyes at him.

"Did I, John? Is that it? I murdered Molly! She let me kill Sally, and Anthea too. Right where you're at, isn't that right?" Death snarled at him, dropping her fist. Death reached down, and Mary was at his other side, and between them, they pulled him to his feet, ignoring the curses he tossed at them.

They turned him, and the women marched him from the ballroom. There were guards in the hall, all armed, and they parted as Death and Mary walked him down the hall, and around a corner. Up a flight of steps, dragging him as he stumbled. They ignored him as he demanded to know where they were taking him, what the hell they were doing. He noticed in the part of his brain that wasn't overcome by grief and betrayal that they were in the private areas of the large house.

They forced him to the end of the hall, to a door where two guards stood outside.

"Open it." Death ordered, and the guards obeyed. As soon as it was open, Death forced him through, spilling him onto the floor on his knees. "Behold, John Watson! Mary's price for her assistance in my endeavors!"

He was breathing hard, not caring what was in the room; whatever it was the price had been too high. He didn't care, didn't look up, right until he heard her voice. A voice he never thought to hear again.

"John?"

_Impossible, no, it's a trick. No…_ John lifted his head, and saw the impossible. A miracle. She jumped from the bed where she had been sitting beside two other women, and raced across the floor, her arms wide.

Molly Hooper hugged him tightly, her arms real and strong. She buried her head in his neck, sobbing out his name. Her hair brushed across his face, the scent as real as the light from the lamps, the pain in his bound hands. She was no ghost. Neither were the two women still on the bed, staring at him in as much shock as he was staring at them.

"Molly?" John whispered in disbelief, as she sobbed harder at the sound of her name. John let her cry against him, as someone cut his hands free. He didn't fight, all he did was raise his hands, and frame her face. "Molly!"

Tears of his own came flowing free. Fast and unchecked, but he didn't care. He pulled the very much alive Molly back to his chest, and gazed in wonder at Anthea. Donovan sat behind her, and John cried harder as she managed a tiny smile for him.

The door shut quietly behind him, but he didn't notice. He only had eyes for the three miracles in the room with him, as he hugged Molly tighter.


	30. Madness Runs in the Family

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me. **

**Hopefully this chapter helps reward everyone's patience. Enjoy, my dears!**

**Warning: Vague hints of child abuse. Lots of swearing near the middle.**

**Read, enjoy, review!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirty<strong>

"_**Madness Runs in the Family"**_

John wiped a thumb over Molly's cheek, still amazed she was real. Her tears had stopped, and she was hiccupping from her weeping. John smiled at her, and that wretched ache he had felt for days eased. It was if he could breathe again, the air sweet and cool, the first cold day of autumn after a long hot summer.

"How?" It was all he could ask, all he needed to ask. John keep his hand to her face, and looked past Molly to the women sitting on the bed. Anthea smiled at him, her face still pale, but the inner strength he had witnessed in her video was there. Donovan was leaning back against the headboard, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, but she looked him in the eye, unafraid.

"Mary….. She made Death promise not to kill us, and she would help." Molly said, hiccupping one more time, her cheeks getting red. "I heard her talking to Death the other morning, before Anthea was filmed. I didn't understand what she meant, until I woke up after mine, in here."

"I've been here for forever, wondering if everyone was dead, and I was in Hell." Donovan grumbled quietly. "And my head hurts like I am, by the way."

It was her mention of pain that snapped John back from his disbelief and joy. He stood, helping Molly to her feet. John looked closer at the girls, and saw what he missed in his shock at seeing them alive.

"Dear God, what did she do to you?" John saw the bruises, the scrapes, the blood that had soaked through the makeshift bandage wrapped around Anthea's arm and hand. They were all still dressed in those short grey shifts, legs and arms bare. John felt anger build up in him, indignation at their treatment. Make them think they're going to die, and that they're making the men who love them watch them die….. Cruelty. Purest form.

"Who's worse off?" John asked, as he sat on the bed, Anthea pulling her legs back so he'd have room. He banished the anger, needing to be calm for the girls. Fastest way to get a patient upset is if the doctor is upset.

"Anthea." Donovan said, not hesitating.

"Sally, please. You have a severe concussion, and a very nasty cut on the back of your head." Anthea tried to divert attention from her hand, but John was having none of it. She was holding her arm tightly to her chest, as she had in her video.

"Yeah, but I stopped bleeding awhile back, you bleed every time you move. And she hit you in the head too, remember?" Donovan said, and John found himself glad to hear that snarky edge to her voice, the one he usually found so annoying.

"Anthea, let me see." John said, his hands out, inches from her arm. "Please let me help."

She met his eyes, and John saw something deep in their green depths that he hadn't expected. She was nervous. Almost afraid. As if she was afraid to look. Looking makes it real. John was patient, and just waited. Molly scooted up on the bed behind her, and rubbed Anthea's shoulder lightly.

"We used the towels from the bathroom, wrapped it up best we could, but we can't make it stop bleeding." Molly said, her eyes on Anthea's arm, as the MI6 agent relaxed centimeter by centimeter, and John slipped his strong fingers underneath. She shook, her muscles cramped from holding that position for so long, and John soothed as best he could.

He took her measure as he slowly unwrapped the blood-soaked cloth from her wrist. Anthea was unbelievably strong, composed. She had held her fear in check, and managed to keep it together this long by sheer nerve. Her pain and her injury were wearing her down, and John saw it in her eyes. She was afraid to relax, to let someone take care of her, else she might break.

John felt his heart sink as the cloth fell away. He pulled gently at the places the cloth had stuck to flesh, and they began to bleed again. This was bad.

"Molly, do you have more towels?" He asked softly, not lifting his eyes from the ruin of Anthea's hand.

"Yeah, we have a bathroom, one second." Molly hopped off the bed, and disappeared from view.

John looked for a moment more, and knew Anthea needed more help than he could offer. She needed surgery. And soon. Three of her fingers were broken, and she had several pieces of wood imbedded like daggers in her hand and wrist. He would hazard a guess that she had more broken bones deep in her hand that he couldn't see. And she was injured days ago. Infection was the biggest danger now.

If this was Death's version of mercy, he dreaded knowing what her idea of being ruthless was. Though in a way he did know; she had convinced them all, even Sherlock, that the women they loved most had been callously murdered.

"How did this happen?" John asked, anger making his voice deeper. This woman deserved better treatment than this. They all did. "You said in your video you tried to escape?"

"Anthea was incredible! Convinced us all she was dying or something, took out a guard three times her size, disarmed him, and managed to get us out of that cage and to the ballroom door." Donovan said, as Molly rushed back in from the bedroom's small bathroom, arms full of towels. "Then that bitch showed out from nowhere, shot the gun from Anthea's hand, shot her own man in the head…." John saw Molly shudder at that mention, "and we got jumped by her goon squad."

"It wasn't enough." Anthea murmured, refusing to look down as John rewrapped her arm with clean towels. "I just made it worse."

"Stop it." John said, refusing to let this woman take any blame for the situation they were all in. She had nearly saved them all. His first impression of her as a mere cypher of Mycroft's shadowy agency was grossly inadequate. "We all know who's at fault here, and none of you deserved this."

John tied off the towel, having ripped the ends to make it easier to secure. He needed actual medical supplies to help her. Something more than fluffy white towels.

"Let me see your head." He ordered, kneeling up on the bed, not wanting her to move any more than she had to. His fingers feathered through her hair, and John found himself smiling despite the circumstances. Even tired, bloody and hurt, Anthea was a beautiful woman, and her hair smelled and felt fantastic. He chided himself on even noticing, a small part of him amused because he noticed how lovely she was._ Interesting._

He felt a lump on her head, just behind her temple. Any closer, and the blow that Death had dealt would have killed her for real. Anthea flinched as his fingers gently probed, but the skin wasn't broken. Her eyes were dilating normally, and she didn't seem to have trouble speaking. No concussion, or at least not too severe. Her nose-bleed must have happened when she hit the floor, as an impact like that was enough to start one.

"Your head looks fine. Anything else?" John sat back, keeping a hand on her shoulder as she swayed. "You need to lie down."

"No, I'm okay….Starts bleeding every time I move…." She started to say, but John cut her off, and made her scoot back on the bed, sitting up against the headboard beside Donovan.

"Who's next?" John said, but he eyed Donovan as he said it. She grimaced slightly, but she didn't argue as he came around to her side. She was pale, like the others, but on her it was alarming. Her naturally darker skin looked almost hallow in its pallor, and she hadn't moved an inch since his unexpected arrival. He stood beside the head of the bed, and followed her hand as she lifted it to the back of her head. John hissed in a breath at the long cut he found, running from the base of her skull, and a few inches down her neck. There was a lump on her head as well, larger than Anthea's. It was above the top of the cut, as if Death had hit her with the hilt of the knife, and turned the blade as she continued the stroke, slicing just deep enough to coat the edge in blood. All without skipping a beat, or making it clear what she had done.

John held his breath, his chest tightening at the frightening display of control and skill displayed by Donovan's injury. Death had done so well, she had convinced a consulting detective, a spymaster, a doctor, and a police officer that she really had killed Sally Donovan.

"You need stitches, or you did. It's been too long now for them to help, it's started to heal. I'm worried about infection now." John moved to look at her eyes, and saw that Anthea was right. Donovan had a concussion, her eyes were off just a bit, and not reacting normally to the light level in the room. He was worried, but she seemed to be aware of where she was, and she was following the conversation easily enough.

John helped her lean back, and he grabbed a small pillow from the bed, putting it between her head and the hard wood of the headboard.

"Molly, let me see." John turned to the pathologist, who had sat quietly while he examined the other two women.

Molly was sitting at the end of the bed, and John felt his heart melt at the tears running down her cheeks. She wasn't crying hard, just tiny tears escaping from her eyes, and she didn't bother wiping them away. John sat next to her, and pulled her unresisting body to his shoulder. He could see the bruising from a blow to the head next to her temple, but he saw nothing else. She was remarkably unharmed physically, but he could see that the entire ordeal of the last few days had left scars on Molly Hooper. She didn't say a word, just soaked his neck in her tears.

John held her, and mentally cursed the woman who had caused all this pain. Death was indeed worthy of being the last disciple of Jim Moriarty. She was just as evil, and her madness was the same breed as her master's.

* * *

><p>Smoke. Heat from flames, so near. The air was burning. Sherlock was burning.<p>

His eyes cracked open, a bare sliver. Light, orange and bright, danced in front of his eyes. Sherlock saw in the haze his fingers outstretched before him on the floor, mere inches from a line of fire. He tried to move them, but his body wasn't aware of his mind; he felt the heat, the pain caused by the flames, but his fingers couldn't move.

Sherlock blinked, and forced his eyes wider. He had awakened twice before this, at the very least. Each time, he had managed to drag himself from where he lay, past bodies bleed dry by bullets, destroyed by flames. Something had exploded out on the street, and whatever it was had ripped through the front of the clinic. Sherlock could barely breathe, his body bruised and broken, but he refused to stop. He could hear past the flames sirens in the distance, the authorities responding despite the MI6 injunction to stay away. That meant he had been under for a long while, trying to drag himself out of the building. Drag himself out, to get to John. His doctor was in danger, and he let it happen.

It was that thought of John that made his hand move, his fingers curl into the burning carpet. He pulled in as deep a breath as his fractured ribs would allow, and pulled. Pulled until he screamed, blood running from his mouth, a rib stabbing his lung. Sherlock pulled until he moved. Just a few inches, but enough to get him closer to the door, closer to John. Away from the flames trying to consume him.

He rested, face in the blood dripping from his lips, shallow gulps of air chasing back the darkness. Sherlock reached again, feeling the faint brush of cold night air from the door. He was so close, so very close. He refused to die in here, refused to let John suffer for his failure. Mary had said it was too late to stop Death, but not too late to follow. And Sherlock would follow Death. To Hell if need be. He already felt the flames.

"Sherlock!" He barely registered the sound, so loud were the roar of the flames. He ignored it, and reached up again, grabbing at the floor, and pulled. The pain rode over his mind, flooding his eyes with black spots, red ribbons of light. He pushed it back at the pain, breathed again, and pulled as hard as he could.

The brush of cold air on his hand was his reward, but it came too late. Sherlock heard the creaking, the rumble above him, as the roof was devoured by the fires. He knew it was too late, it would fall on him any moment.

Sherlock was falling, the heat and flames withdrawing from his awareness. He fought to stay awake. It was so hard; his body had failed him. Sherlock was failing John.

_Forgive me, John. I failed you. I let my emotions cloud my judgment. I dropped my guard. Became weak. …. But I will never regret you. Loving you is all I can feel now. I'm dying, and all I can feel is how much I love you._

"Sherlock!" It came again, that sound. Too late for him to realize what it was, as the darkness came back for him, pulling him under. He didn't feel the hands grab him under the arms, lifting and dragging him from the floor. All he could feel was that small flame burning in his soul, the flame that hissed John's name in the shadows.

* * *

><p>The voices were quiet, but he could hear them. They were formless, nothing to tell him who was speaking. The darkness held him under, just under the waking point. Shadowy fog floated around him, wispy and beguiling.<p>

The air was cooler, the absence of flames a welcome respite. A breeze fluttered over his face, cooling him, and he no longer struggled for air. Oxygen was being pushed into him, the mask over in his face annoying, but providing relief.

Sherlock struggled to cast off the darkness, the sluggish pull of the narcotics someone had given him. That fog was back, pulling at his mind, beguiling him, whispering at him to sleep. The shadows swam around him, singing to him of peaceful oblivion. He fought it off; he reached for that light he knew was there. It was always there. John. His John.

"How bad is it?" Said one of the shadows, concern heavy in the voice. Sherlock had heard this shadow speak before, somewhere. He knew it. Somehow.

"Lacerated lung, five broken ribs, several muscles in his chest are sprained. Smoke inhalation, not too severe. He has some minor burns, mostly around his hands. Those should heal up just fine. It's the ribs that have me worried." Another shadow was speaking, one that Sherlock had never heard before. Exasperation and fatigue so clear.

"What do you mean? Explain." The familiar voice was impatient, worry driving his words.

"There's evidence of earlier breaks, that weren't given time to heal properly. Whatever happened to him tonight caused them to break again, and one of them cut a lung. If he doesn't let himself heal this time around, his lung could collapse completely. That's a serious stay in hospital, and most likely surgery. No activity of any kind. He has to stay in bed and recover."

"He may not be able to, once he learns what's happened tonight. He will not be cooperative, Doctor." Said that familiar shadow voice. Sherlock knew it. The name was floating past him, the fog obscuring who this was.

"He's out of it for now. I don't expect him to wake up for another twelve to twenty-four hours. I'd suggest that whatever it is, if you can get away with it, don't tell him."

"Once he wakes up, Doctor, he's going to see it, know the truth. I've never been able to hide everything from him, even as a child. I'd like you to keep him under, as long as you can. He'll heal if we force him too."

"You want me to keep him sedated? Will it be that bad, once he learns whatever it is you don't want him to know?"

"It will be worse. Keep my brother sedated." Mycroft. His brother. _What doesn't he want me to know?_

"He's had a very large dose already. I'll see about giving him some more when it's safe to do so. I can keep him out for a few days without adverse effects."

"Do it. I'll be back tomorrow." The voice he had named Mycroft left, the sound of his shoes loud on the tiled floors.

Another set of footprints followed, and silence fell in his room. Sherlock was aware of the sound of a fan whirring overhead, the beeps of machines nearby, the sting of an IV in his arm. Hospital. He was in a hospital.

_Why? What happened? Why isn't John treating me? He's my doctor. I changed all that paperwork years ago. Never told him… never came up. Never told him I left him in control of my fate. Mycroft shouldn't be here, telling the doctor what to do. Where's John?_

_John. Why aren't you here? I remember fire. Flames. Crawling away from the fire…. Mary. She was there. Why was Mary in a fire? No…. no…focus….._

Sherlock grew angry, as the fog tried to pull him under. There was something very important, so very vital, that he knew was just out of reach. He couldn't settle his mind, the drugs overwhelming him. He fought back, striking at the fog. It withdrew, but barely. Sherlock pulled in a deep breath, the oxygen helping. Pain burned in his chest, his side. Whatever they had sedated him with was keeping it at bay, at the edge of his reality. Another deep breath. Clarity. Sherlock pried open his eyes, and was thankful the lights were low. His eyes burned, and tears came in response.

There was a noise at the door to his room. Sherlock closed his eyes, and waited. Someone was breathing, being very quiet as they came in the room. He followed the sound of their footsteps, feather light on the floor. A scent that reminded him of gun-metal oil, fire, and the Thames crept over him, faint through the mask. Close now, very close to him.

"I know you're awake, Sherlock." Her voice. _I know that voice. _"Well, perhaps not awake, but close enough. Shall I help you out, dear?"

There was a beeping noise, and the fog retreated. The shadows thinned out, and Sherlock blinked his eyes open. A figure was standing over him, slim and wraith-like in the dim lights of the room.

"Ah, there you are. Mary said you were alive, but when I heard you were hospitalized, I was so worried." Death whispered to him, her hand drifting across his brow, smoothing back the curls. "She gets so enthusiastic sometimes, sorry about that. But then you did piss her off something fierce, dear."

It all came crashing back, every last second. The dark eyes above him glittered in unholy glee as she saw the memories return to him, and the rage that accompanied it. There was a beeping in the room, faster in response to his heart. Sherlock struggled to move, his arms still heavy from the morphine. She was here, staring down at him, a sweet smile on her beautiful face, eyes burning to match the fire raging in his heart.

"Shhh, easy Sherlock. Don't hurt yourself. We wouldn't want anyone to see me in here, might get messy." Death whispered, leaning over him. "You better get well soon, I won't have anything to occupy my time if you don't. Well, other than the delectable Dr Watson, that is."

Sherlock growled and managed to lift a hand, trying to push her away, grab her, anything. She caught his hand in her own, and clasped it tightly. She was strong, so strong. Sherlock meet her eyes, and he saw in her the ghost of a man long dead. Her eyes, she had his eyes.

"I have John, Sherlock. He belongs to me. I have your heart, that which you love most. I will burn your heart, set it ablaze, and destroy your future. Destroy your life. I will burn away my past, free my demons, and join James." Death leaned over him, her eyes all he could see. "Get well soon, Sherlock. It'll be a better way to die if we're all together. No phone call to change a mind, no backup plan to cushion your Fall. There won't be on a rooftop, it won't be as easy as a step off a ledge."

Death tugged the mask away from his face, still holding tight to his hand. Her free hand rose, and cupped his cheek. He didn't try to avoid it; this was inevitable. She kissed him, and her lips were soft, tasting like Irish whiskey and peppermint gum. She kissed him as if he were her true love, every heartbeat she had to offer his. She didn't hold back, and Sherlock didn't fight her. The scent of water, like the sea and the Thames, rose from her coat, her hair. It wasn't unpleasant, and Sherlock filed it away as her lips moved gently over his.

She pulled back, her lips clinging to his for a second longer. She brushed away his wandering curls one more time, before she reached out and increased his morphine drip. She gently put his oxygen mask back, making sure it was snug. She laid his hand on the bed, and pulled the blankets up a little higher, careful not to jar his side.

"I must go dearest. Your brother is sending someone to watch over you, he'll be here any minute. Big brothers can be so sweet, can't they? They do what they think is best for us, even when it hurts."

She was fading into the fog, her eyes the last part of her he could see. The morphine whispered at him, and Sherlock let the shadows sweep him away.

_John, I'm coming for you. Stay alive. I know who she is. I know who she is….._

* * *

><p>Philip Anderson stood hesitantly in the doorway to Sherlock's hospital room, watching as the consulting detective slept. He must be deeply asleep, as he hadn't noticed the very beautiful brunette who had wandered into his room by mistake. She had smiled at him, and Philip had been distracted by it, as it was shy and sweet. Her long brown hair was pulled back into a fancy braid, and it swung with every step she took. Her clothes had implied wealth and style, and Philip had enough brain cells left to hurry out of her way as she walked by him.<p>

Philip stepped over the threshold, and when Sherlock didn't react, he figured it was safe to step in all the way. He moved to the detective's bedside, and looked down. Sherlock's chest was heavily bruised, the impact point high up on the left side of his chest, and spreading down his side. Philip felt a jolt of concern at the level the morphine was set at. Surely it shouldn't be so high. But then Sherlock would have a tolerance to it, considering how many times he had used it before. Not all of those times when he was hurt, either.

Philip pulled out his mobile, and stared at the text message he had received from Mycroft Holmes.

**You may begin to make amends at St Bart's Hospital, Room 207. He doesn't leave. –MH**

Philip sat in the chair next to Sherlock's bed, propped his feet up on the dropped metal railing, and did his best to watch Sherlock sleep without falling asleep himself.

* * *

><p>Lestrade kept the icepack to the lump on his head, wincing as a thin trickle of cold water ran down the back of his neck. He was sitting on the bench across the street from Mycroft's house, as the fire crews and police worked the scene. Dawn had yet to arrive, but everyone was anyone was here, from several ministry officials of some kind, to some of his own superiors. Mycroft had left, going to the hospital where Sherlock had been taken. Lestrade would've gone, but he had managed to get caught by one of his superiors, and received a tongue lashing from Hell when he refused to tell them what had happened. The only thing he felt comfortable saying was that something had blown up and he'd hit his head. Wasn't technically a lie, but then the truth was so much worse. He had escaped only when the paramedics had cornered him, and that had been almost as bad.<p>

"Are you alright, Greg?" Mycroft asked, making Lestrade jump, pain jolting in his skull at the sudden movement. He looked up, squinting at the MI6 man.

"Thought you went to the hospital? How's Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, moving over a bit as the taller man sat next to him. Mycroft peered at his head, mouth pinching tight when he saw the lump, and the thin trickle of blood running out of his hair.

"He's severely injured. Miss Morstan nearly killed him." Mycroft murmured, and he sighed in exasperation as the DI let the icepack slip from his head.

"Tired of holding this thing on, I'm soaking wet and I hurt if I take it off." Greg grumbled, resting on the seat back. "Is he gonna be okay?"

"He'll be fine if he stays in bed and rests. Though I haven't much hope of that once he learns that John was taken." Mycroft reached out, and very subtly took the icepack from Lestrade. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, wrapped it up, and without even blinking, held it to the injury himself.

Lestrade eyed him in disbelief, but said nothing about it. Like Mycroft took care of him all the time. Totally natural. Never mind the last two days spent in each other's arms. Just holding each other, mind. Nothing else. Just some decent snuggling. Having someone to hold helped in dealing with the pain. "Someone keeping an eye on him?"

No one was watching them, and Lestrade scooted closer to the MI6 man. The shadows were deep here, and they were far enough away from the chaos that people weren't likely to wander over. Mycroft adjusted his grip, his forearm resting on Lestrade's shoulder as his hand held the pack to the bump. The handkerchief was absorbing the water, and it was helping with the pain.

"I've got a man on it. Someone motivated not to screw it up." Mycroft said, his thumb rubbing through Greg's silver hair.

"Well, alright. Don't know what we're gonna do when Sherlock figures it out. Man'll go mad for sure." Greg said, worry in his voice. Death had John. She'd waltzed into Mycroft's home, made a man betray his country, kidnapped John, killed her inside man, and then as a parting gift, knocked him out just for fun. Then there were their friends, the women slain so pointlessly. Slain just to make them hurt. Lestrade had never really hated anyone before, so this was a new experience.

"Is there any point in me asking if we know where she went?" Lestrade said, angling his body on the bench, so he was facing Mycroft. The other man kept the icepack to his head, his thumb soothing as it idly twirled in Lestrade's hair. Greg felt the anger, the pain, and the misery of helplessness drift away, this man's touch distracting.

"None whatsoever. She's gone. And I'll be explaining why to my own superiors here soon, I expect." Mycroft groused, eyeing the chaotic scene in front of his house with displeasure. Acting like he wasn't playing with Greg's very soft, thick, beautiful fox-grey hair.

"You have superiors?" Greg scoffed, smiling a little. Hard to believe Mycroft Holmes answered to anyone.

"Only two, actually. Everyone else is an annoyance to be handled." Mycroft said, and Greg caught a glimpse of a smile on the MI6 man's face out of the corner of his eye. Greg found himself wondering who those two were, but he dropped that line of thought. Better not to know that answer.

Greg avoided making eye contact, afraid to draw attention to the fact that every muscle in his body was very aware of Mycroft. Every nerve alive, tingling. Mycroft's hand holding the icepack; the thumb in his hair, just behind his ear; the scent of Mycroft's cologne, which he knew so well now. He felt it all, warm water washing over him, filling places long left cold. The air even felt different. Newer. Never mind the smell of burnt wood and car exhaust, the air tasted new. As if he had never breathed before.

Greg cursed himself for being a coward. He wouldn't call himself brave, but he knew he was never this fearful. He took a deep breath, and turned his eyes to Mycroft's.

He looked in the eyes of the man who had held him as he wept for Donovan. He looked into the eyes of the man who had mourned Anthea. They had held each other, not questioning the comfort they had garnered from the other man's embrace. He hadn't questioned it. It had felt so very right.

Mycroft met his eyes directly. The MI6 man had been waiting patiently for Greg to look at him. Mycroft's eyes were intent, watching the play of emotions across the DI's face. Greg didn't know what he saw in the taller man's eyes, but it made his insides tumble, like he had tripped while walking on a smooth surface. Greg felt lost, but not to those eyes. He was lost to the world, and he never wanted to be found.

The icepack disappeared, and Mycroft's hand was buried in his hair, long fingers framing his head, holding him. Greg's heart began to race, eyes burning from not blinking. He refused to look away, he couldn't look away. They were closer to each other, less than a foot between them, neither of them aware that they had moved.

The shadows were still deep here, where they sat on the bench. No one could see them, and Greg wouldn't have cared if they could. His hand rose on its own, and his fingers shook as he came within a hair's breadth of touching Mycroft's cheek. Greg swallowed nervously, and let his fingertips touch skin. He felt like he had touched a live wire, pinpricks of painful sensitivity racing through his fingers, his hand, through his arm and straight to his heart. It jumped, and beat faster.

Mycroft saw all this in Greg's eyes, and marveled at it. This was so unexpected, so different. This pull was magnetic, he couldn't stop himself, couldn't think of a reason why he should stop. Mycroft tipped his head down, Greg moving to meet him. Greg felt Mycroft's breath on his face, and his eyes drifted shut. Slowly, as if dreaming, their lips touched, feather-light. A spark was lit, and Greg trembled.

_What is this…..Dear God! Don't stop…_

Mycroft tensed up, but didn't pull away. Greg was past thinking, and let both his hands frame the other man's face. He pressed just the slightest bit more, and kissed Mycroft as gently as he could. Mycroft let him, his breath coming faster, and Greg felt shivers run through his frame.

"Mycroft Holmes!" Came a voice, impatient. Clearly feminine, and older. Demanding.

They jumped apart, both of them gasping for air, shock and fear and passion crashing between them on the bench. Greg met Mycroft's eyes for split second, before his face got red, and he pulled away.

An older woman with gold blonde hair stood on the sidewalk in front of the ruin of Mycroft's house, looking in their direction. Greg blessed the shadows, as it hid his red face, and Mycroft coughed into his hand. Mycroft tossed him a look, unreadable, before standing up. He straightened his suit, and handed Greg the icepack. He took it absently, mind still chaotic from what had just happened. Mycroft looked at him a moment longer, then turned, walking across the street to the woman who had called for him so imperiously.

Greg sat back against the bench. He had no idea what he'd just done, and he had no idea at all what it meant. He unwrapped Mycroft's handkerchief from the now warm icepack, and stared at it. It was red, and had the initials MH embroidered in gold thread in one of the corners. He rubbed it between his fingers, and he looked up at the man across the street.

Whatever they were talking about, it wasn't good. Mycroft was stiffer than usual, fist clenched, like he was missing his umbrella, and his hand was lost without it. His attitude was hard to decipher; the woman was obviously someone whom Mycroft respected, but he seemed very upset by what she was saying.

Greg raised his brows, believing he was seeing the most polite, high-brow, uptight bickering he'd ever witnessed. Thankful he was too far away to actually hear it, Greg went back to running the handkerchief through his fingers, watching the man who moved him so far from his comfort zone.

* * *

><p>Morning came gently to the river, as if apologizing for the rain that had soaked parts of London the night before. Fog cloaked the still green grass of the vast lawn, stifling all sounds. Death watched the grey light of dawn mix with the shadows of the night, the fog prolonging the darkness in the shaded areas. The fog kissed the glass of her window, eventually obscuring the ground below. The river was long lost from sight, and the lamp glow from the boathouse was swallowed up. She touched the glass, feeling the chill on her fingertips.<p>

The great house was quiet. This part of the manor was always quiet. Or it had been, until Mary swayed her decision, and she let her hostages live. Until John Watson had arrived. He had begun to be moderately annoying in the early morning hours while she was visiting Sherlock in the hospital. He had banged on the door until Mary had ordered the guards to figure out what he had wanted. He had demanded supplies to treat the hostages, and proper clothes. Death had plenty of both in abundance, and when Mary had texted her, informing her that she was raiding her supplies and her closet, Death hadn't minded. She had texted Mary back, telling her she had no issues, as long as it kept Dr Watson in a controllable mood. Death had smiled to herself; she had the perfect means by which to control John Watson, and it wasn't by threatening him with violence. All she had to do was maintain control of her very vulnerable hostages. He would obey without hesitation as long as she had the women.

Death turned from the window, and walked from her room, closing the door behind her gently. Death padded down the hall, her feet bare on the wood floor. She had exchanged her black gear for a simple shift, barely enough to cover herself in the cold autumn air, her shoulders bare, her legs exposed from her knees down. Her hair was free from its long braid, the waves in it wild and moving easily in the breeze she made by walking.

She nodded to the guard stationed in the hall, noting with approval that he looked alert, and his weapons ready. He stiffened slightly as she passed, an instinctive tightening of muscles, beyond conscious control. She had that effect on most people. She made no move showing she had seen, and continued on her way.

She had left her weapons behind, in her room not far from Mary's. The older assassin slept lightly, and rose early. Death knew Mary was aware she passed her room, but she wouldn't intrude unless she knew she was welcome. Death had come to appreciate the older woman's presence, much to her surprise. Calm, capable, and she understood Death, better than anyone had since the untimely demise of James. Mary was wary of her, but she wasn't afraid. She accepted Death as she was. So very rare.

Mary had initially been a debt to call even. She had been a woman wronged by Sherlock Holmes, and Death had sympathized. When she learned Mary was compromised, she had done her best to intercede before it was too late. Death had known Mary was in England, almost as soon as she settled, six years ago now. Death had let her be, knowing that she had faked her death as her official retirement. It would have been rude to reemerge in her life, colliding the old with the new. Mary was the only reminder of her previous life, when she followed the will and wishes of her beloved, when he still breathed. Before he became entangled in a game of obsession and control. Before he found Sherlock Holmes.

Death rounded a corner in the grand old house. Her bare feet were soundless. She was heading for the next level, up to the old nursery. Many decades ago the children of the house had been left in the rafters, to be trotted out for guests to be adored before being shuffled out of sight. It was up there that Death sought out her beginning.

Death had spent many years of her life in this building. She hadn't been born to it, but she had briefly been raised in it. The echoes of children laughing followed her down the long hall of the third floor, and she could have sworn she heard whispers from the other side of the nursery door.

She pushed it open, the hinges complaining from disuse. Light came in from the windows, dust shifting in the air. The walls were white plaster, warm red woods bracing the windows, the floor. Small desks were lined up along the wall, pushed to the side. There was a window seat under the largest of the windows, the cushion long gone. She was drawn to it, and her feet took her across the dusty floor. This room was above the fog, and the light came in strong. The fog wouldn't last long this morning. The sun was warm on her feet, her harsh breathing loud in the room, her emotions tumbling from inside her deepest, most secret of hearts. A heart that once beat only for one man, a heart that now had no reason to keep her alive, but for the promise of revenge.

She knelt next to the seat, its size more suitable for a child. Or two small children, who had no one but themselves for company, and love. Two small children left alone in a strange house, with a man they barely knew, their mother freshly entombed in the cold earth. A man who looked at them as things, and not as precious gifts left in his care. Death felt it all come back, and she let it, her grief pulling the memories out of the long abandoned past. She sobbed quietly at sight of the etchings in the wood seat. Her fingers followed the letters carved in the wood, the J and the M so familiar, and very so painful to the touch.

* * *

><p>Sherlock blinked. The light was bright, the curtains pulled back from the windows. There was a snoring coming from the side of his bed, and he turned his head.<p>

_Anderson? Why the hell…. Ah. Mycroft. My babysitter. Woke him up in the middle of the night, no less. Sent him here to make sure I don't leave. So that I don't go after John. _

Sherlock looked towards the morphine drip, noticing that it was almost empty. The flow had slowed as it neared the end, which is why he was awake now. That also meant that the nurses would be in here soon, replacing the drip, and putting him back under. To keep him here. Which was unacceptable. Mycroft wouldn't listen, would make him stay under until he healed. And John would be dead. That thought drove a spike of terror through his heart, and Sherlock refused to let anything stop him. Not even his brother and his meddling.

Anderson was asleep, drooping in the chair, his hands in his lap. Sherlock saw the mobile loosely held in one of his hands. He narrowed his eyes, evaluating Anderson. He was in deep REM sleep, despite his precarious position in the chair.

_Do it now, before you get a nurse in here drugging you into stupidity. Move! _

Sherlock took a deep breath, and rolled over. He fought back a scream, as his entire body protested the move. His ribs stabbed at him, and he froze, panting into the mask. He breathed as deeply as he could, and with infinite care, reached out. He plucked the mobile from Anderson's grasp, and fell back to the bed, gasping as quietly as he could. Anderson slept on, oblivious.

Sherlock woke the mobile, and figured out Anderson's password in less than two seconds. Took longer to type it in that to figure it out. The man was dreadfully obvious in his obsession. Sherlock pulled a number from memory, and began to type, casting glances at the sleeping man and the door.

**Need a jailbreak. Disciple has John. –SH**

Sherlock watched the screen, coming as close as he had in a long time to praying. A minute passed, then another, before he got his reply.

**I've found you. In Paris. Will be there in 4 hours. –VH**

Sherlock felt a rush of relief, glad she had been so near. She moved all over the globe, never staying in one place too long, especially after pulling a job. Sherlock erased the texts, and dropped his arm, letting the mobile fall to the floor. It hit with a sharp clatter, waking the former forensic technician. Sherlock ignored him as he pulled in air, trying to settle the pain.

"Sherlock! You're awake! Ah, let me get a nurse." Anderson looked embarrassed at having been sleeping, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the other man in resigned annoyance. Anderson gulped, and scuttled from the room, calling from the hallway for a nurse. Anderson had a lot more to be embarrassed about than sleeping on the job.

Sherlock groaned, wondering if Violet would get here sooner. Being stuck in a hospital room while high on morphine and having to listen to Anderson ply him with conspiracy theories didn't rank high on his list of worthy endeavors. He had a doctor to rescue.

* * *

><p>Mycroft was very unhappy. Well, he would admit to such a state if he ever admitted to being happy. Neither were likely to happen. Lady Elizabeth Smallwood had expressed serious concerns over his handling of Moriarty's disciple, and she had spent the majority of her lecture informing him of it. But there was little she could do, other than stress to him the impropriety of letting his little brother run a disastrous MI6 operation in London. Which ended up leaving several people dead, two buildings blown up, and now a beloved public figure in the form of a certain doctor was missing. And she kept glancing at the bench across the street, were a very befuddled Detective Inspector was sitting.<p>

Mycroft made every point not to look at Gregory Lestrade, determined to keep Lady Smallwood in the dark about his very ambiguous relationship. Dawn had broken, fog clinging to the side streets and alleys, the main streets clearing quickly under the bright sun. Mycroft sighed, wishing he were anywhere but where he currently was. Like the hospital. Or that bench.

"Mycroft." Lady Smallwood was glaring at him. Damn. She had noticed his distraction.

"Yes, Elizabeth?" Mycroft replied, raising a brow in exasperation.

"I am sorry…. About Anthea. She was an admirable woman." Her voice lost the angry edge, and she was looking at him in something close to sympathy.

Mycroft felt the sharp edge of grief stab at his control, and he blinked in the bright morning light. Anthea. His Anthea. The world felt wrong. She was supposed to be by his side, clicking away at her mobile, feeding him information about the world, letting him meddle where needed. But she wasn't. She was gone. There was a void, and he couldn't adapt. He didn't think he'd ever adapt to her absence.

"Yes…. Thank you." Mycroft looked down at the ground, avoiding her eyes.

"I will advise the Prime Minister that you will be handling this situation exclusively from this point. As valuable as your little brother is, he is obviously compromised by his direct involvement. Especially considering the abduction of Dr Watson." She said, watching him for a reaction.

There it was, the real reason she was here this early, giving him a lecture he didn't need. Sherlock. The wild card, the man no one could control. Other than Dr Watson. And seeing as how that inestimable man was missing, Sherlock was a loose cannon. Quite capable of burning down all of London in the effort to find his partner.

"Sherlock is currently incapacitated at St Bart's. He will not be involved anymore." Mycroft replied, his tone implying strongly that the conversation was over.

"Excellent." She nodded to him, and sharply turned on her heel, not even saying goodbye. Not that he minded, the entire conversation had left him vastly uncomfortable.

"She's pleasant." Greg had snuck up behind him, and Mycroft just managed to stop himself from jumping. He looked the DI in the eyes, and what he saw there both reassured him, and left him even more unsettled.

Mycroft Holmes was navigating in waters he had never thought to be in, and the way before him was unclear. All he knew is that he had to find John Watson. Find him, or lose Sherlock.

* * *

><p>John listened to the girls breathe, the sound a hymn healing the wounds their faked deaths had left on his heart. The grief was fading, but fear was taking its place. He had to take care of them. They were injured, and very vulnerable.<p>

Anthea had benefited most from the medical supplies and clothing he'd managed to get from their captors. He had been able to set her fingers, and removed most of the wood from her arm and hand. He feared there might be pieces he was missing, and bones he couldn't fix, but she was a lot better off than she had been. Molly had found her courage, and helped him with Anthea. Donovan had been too weak to help, falling asleep in between Anthea's gasps of pain. She hadn't cried. Anthea hadn't shed a single tear as he straightened her fingers, pulled wood splinters from her flesh, and stitched her up. Not one tear.

John turned his head from where he sat in the armchair under the window, checking to make sure they were all still sleeping. All still alive. Still there. Anthea was finally asleep, aided by the painkillers in the medical kit he'd gotten from Death's people. The dangerous pieces had been removed, like the scalpels and such, but he had done more with less before, and he'd made it work.

Molly was curled up against Anthea's side, and Donovan was finally fully under herself. He'd cleaned the wound on her head and neck, and she'd suffered through it without complaint. He hadn't stitched it up, as the wound was days past that point. He had merely covered it as best he could, and given her some antibiotics. Death's medical supplies were extraordinary, and he found himself wondering why she had them. For a woman callous enough to kill a member of her own guard for failing to stop three women from escaping, to taking out a government aide turned traitor because he no longer had a use, she was strangely out of character.

The girls were adamant that Mary had spared them, convincing Death that she didn't have to kill them. And Death had implied as much last night, when she threw him in here. And she was letting him stay with the girls, when he knew that keeping prisoners divided was one of the best ways to maintain control. She was doing all of this so differently than he would have expected. But then, she was insane. And it seemed Mary Morstan had a surprising level of influence over the disciple. John didn't know whether that was a good thing or not; Mary hadn't seemed inclined to show him mercy last night.

John tossed all thought of his ex out of his mind; there was someone far more important he was worried about. Sherlock. Mary had said he was alive. That's it. No word on how badly he was hurt. Nothing. For all he knew, Sherlock could be on a ventilator in a hospital, dying from internal injuries. Or he could be hounding Mrs. Hudson for some biscuits while he planned a brazen rescue. John could hope. Though considering that they were all still alive, and that Death wasn't singing in the halls, John figured that Sherlock was hurt, but still functional. Physically able to function. What worried John the most is how his detective was handling his abduction.

Sherlock had snapped when the assassins had threatened him with their rifles the other night at 221B. Lost it totally. Fear had overwhelmed him, panic making him shut down. John could only pray that Sherlock wouldn't break apart now. He needed his detective, the miracle. The man who claimed to be invincible.

John missed Sherlock with a sharp pain in his chest, like he'd been stabbed. He shut his eyes tightly, and breathed through it. Worry, fear, doubt, it was all there, making a racket in his head. And love. Love was there, too. God, how he loved his detective.

_Sherlock. Hurry._

* * *

><p>Sherlock was slipping in and out of sleep, the morphine keeping Anderson from getting too annoying. He had droned on and on about nonsensical theories all morning. The man realized at some point in the day that Sherlock really wasn't following along, and had settled for playing a depressingly cheerful app on his mobile. Little tweets and chirps and bird noises.<p>

_Hurry up Violet, or I'm going to kill myself killing Anderson._

It was enough to make Sherlock believe in the divine. Her voice suddenly broke out over the hospital intercom system, something about a car being towed due to improper parking, and Sherlock restrained a giggle at the description of Anderson's car. She had masked her American accent well, though Sherlock could still hear traces of it. No one else would, though.

The annoying bird noises stopped, and Sherlock stayed relaxed, letting the man think he was still asleep. He nearly was anyway, the morphine was still set on high, but he was adapting to it. Sherlock just stayed relaxed, and he heard Anderson get up, and throw on his jacket, swearing as he left the room.

He didn't know how long it took, but there was a beeping noise, and he was able to think clearer. Someone had turned down the morphine. Sherlock blinked away the fog, and looked up, into the most unique pair of eyes he'd ever seen. Violet eyes, for the girl named Violet Hunter. Black waves of silky hair framed a lightly tanned face, and she grinned wide as he met her eyes. Sherlock grinned back in return, the delight on her face at misbehaving infectious.

Violet removed the IV and the oxygen mask, silencing the machines as she disconnected him.

"Sexy, what the hell happened? Never mind, I know what happened, hacked MI6 on my way over the Channel. What a cluster fuck! And did you know your brother already locked you out of your access to the network? What a bitchy thing to do. Anyway, let's blow this popsicle stand, hospitals freak me the fuck out." Violet kept chattering away at him, knowing he really wasn't able to do more than blink at her in his current state. She had that covered, and he felt a sharp jab in his arm. His brain cleared remarkably quickly, and the pain dulled with the fog. Adrenaline. She always was very smart.

The shot made his heart race, but he was able to sit up, being careful not to bend too much. He steadied himself on the bed, feet on the floor, as the room spun. She had shut the door, and was pulling clothing out of a bag. Sherlock didn't even blink as she ripped his few pieces of clothing off, and helped him into clothes she must have raided from his flat. She even had his coat, which was relatively unscathed, though it did smell like smoke.

She had him dressed in less than two minutes, and he stood, gaining his balance by putting a hand on her shoulder. She walked a few steps, her height near to his, and she roped an arm around his waist, letting him put his weight on her as they stepped out into the hall. Violet glanced up and down the hall, and she took more of his weight before briskly stepping out. Sherlock matched her, bottling down the pain. This was the hard part; getting out of the hospital without getting noticed.

But Violet Hunter was more than a hacker; she was an American girl raised on causing trouble, and she did it well. Sherlock grinned in admiration as she hit the fire alarm on their way down the hall, where she pulled him into the stair well. She paused for brief second, and pulled the pin on something that looked suspiciously like a grenade. He knew better; it was smoke bomb, and she dropped it right in front of the staircase door. No one would use the stairs here with smoke billowing out of them. She cast him a look full of mischief, and she practically carried him down the stairs to the emergency exit doors. He blacked out, but he trusted her to get him out in one piece.

He came to in the front passenger seat of a very expensive car, a very bright yellow Ferrari. The engine roared, and he looked over to see Violet clicking away at her laptop, eyes narrowed in concentration, her teeth tugging at her bottom lip as she worked, her foot caressing the gas pedal.

"Disabling the CCTV cameras in a ten block radius. It'll mess everyone up enough for us to get away. And seriously, who would expect you to be in a bright yellow Ferrari with a sexy chick?" Violet laughed, and tossed her laptop gently on his lap.

"Where to, sexy?" She asked, putting the car in gear, and she drove from the rear parking lot of the hospital, dodging around other vehicles like they were standing still.

"Leinster Gardens, 23-24." Sherlock murmured, and he pulled his coat up higher around his face, hands in his pocket. He wasn't at all concerned by her speed, and relaxed into the seat.

He felt something in his pocket, some kind of plastic stick. He ran his fingers over it, and felt his heart jump in his chest as he recognized it.

"_Look in your pocket. I'll help if I can." _Mary's whisper came back to him, the words she had whispered in his ear, just before she used the Taser on him. Sherlock discretely looked down, and saw the pregnancy test stick in his pocket. The results made his eyes widen; his first thought was of John. His doctor. His John, his lover.

Mary was pregnant with John's baby. _Oh, John…._

* * *

><p>Mycroft stood in his bunker, watching as a crew cleaned up the mess from the floor. The traitor's body had been removed, and Mycroft was impatient to get started. To see how deeply Death had wormed her way into the systems.<p>

His pocket buzzed, and Mycroft pulled out his mobile. He felt a sense of inevitable dread come over him when he saw it was from Anderson.

**Sorry, sir. He's gone. –PA**

Mycroft gripped the mobile tightly, and spun on his heel. He strode from the bunker, and went hunting for his Detective Inspector. Surely the man would be able to find a severely injured consulting detective.

* * *

><p>Violet wove the bright Ferrari through the early afternoon traffic, unconcerned at the horn blasts and fingers tossed in her direction. Sherlock needed to rest, flat on his back. And she knew him well enough to know he wouldn't rest as long as his boyfriend was in danger.<p>

_Boyfriend and Sherlock Holmes in the same sentence. Holy shit. Never ever thought I'd see the day._

Violet had met Sherlock Holmes over a decade ago, back when she had hacked her way into his university. She had been well under the usual age, and Sherlock had taken all of two minutes to figure out what she had done. Violet didn't have an official education; she had been on her own since she was thirteen, and school had always been a bore. But she had known that there were things a university could teach her that she couldn't get online. So she had enrolled herself in the best university she could find that had what she wanted.

Sherlock had seen, called her on it, and promptly kept his mouth shut. He hadn't turned her in, hadn't said a word to anyone. And so she went to classes, paid attention to what she wanted, and pretended she didn't notice that Sherlock was keeping an eye on her.

He hadn't been obvious, and he hadn't interfered. Sherlock had only ever sought her out when he needed code cracked, someone's computer hacked, or a piece of information he couldn't get from somewhere else. And in return, he took her dancing. The very anti-social, neurotic, grumpy and intimidating, highly intelligent Sherlock Holmes could dance. Very well.

Violet had caught him at it one night, in one of the closed up lecture halls. She had heard music playing, and having zero personal boundaries, decided to snoop. And there he was, dancing by himself. His hair had been much longer then, and he was skinnier, and the dorky picture he had made had almost distracted her from the fact that he was _amazing._

He had been angry at first, when he had seen her smiling at him just inside the door. But he hadn't a chance to leave, or to start complaining before she threw the lock, and stepped into his arms. She loved to dance too. He had let her lead for all of three seconds before a massive grin broke across his face, and he took over. They had danced that night for hours, everything from the waltz to the tango. Man could move, and he pushed her skills to the limit.

Violet knew he was relieved when she never pushed him for anything beyond dancing. Beyond the occasional company, and working on solving puzzles. Violet cared for him a great deal, but he wasn't her type. She wasn't interested in men that much. Loved to flirt with them, as they were so easy to fluster, but that was it. She was still surprised to this day that it had taken Sherlock Holmes so long to notice that she was gay. But then, he hadn't been interested in sex of any kind, to the point of asexuality, that she really shouldn't be surprised. He had been younger then, and she had no doubt that if he were to meet her for the first time today, he'd pick it up immediately.

Violet looked at him, trapped in a foggy state of pain and nerves. He was older, more muscles on his frame, and he seemed to have found a better hold on his abilities. As a younger man, it took an act of God to get him to shut up when it came to his deductions, and she was glad he had found success as the world's only consulting detective. Gave him something purposeful to do. And it brought him love. John Watson.

Violet took the corner hard into Leinster Gardens, glad it was a work day and that most people in the area were out. She killed the engine right outside 23 and 24 Leinster Gardens, and hopped out, running to his side of the car. She pulled the door open, and caught him as he started to spill out.

"C'mon sexy, get up." She yanked him up, glad she didn't fit the stereotype of the usual hacker. She made it a point to work out often, and she was thanking that habit as she all but carried the detective up to the doors.

"Keys, in my pocket….." He gasped out, the shot and the morphine clearly worn off by this point.

She dug out his keys, and found the right one. She kicked the door open, and dragged him over the threshold. She recognized immediately what this place was. The rumble of the Underground wasn't loud, the concrete walls muffled the sound, but the vibrations underfoot were strong. She dragged him into a small alcove, and dropped him gently on a settee covered in dust.

"Stay here, I'm getting my gear, and dumping the car. Ten minutes." She didn't even stop to see if he responded, spinning on her heels and booking it for the car. She slammed the door shut, and ran to the Ferrari. She gunned it out of the street, heading for a nearby lot. Violet knew these streets well; she had lived in London for almost three years before moving on.

Mycroft Holmes had been uncomfortable with his little brother being so close to a woman who could, and did, hack into any government system on the planet. Violet had merely offered the opinion that he didn't like Sherlock having a life, one that didn't follow his expectations. Sherlock had laughed at the look on his brother's face, and she knew she hadn't made a friend that day. But not an enemy either; Mycroft was far too pragmatic not to see the value in knowing someone with her skill set. And so she was tolerated, and Violet hadn't any regrets when the jobs started pouring in. That meant money, and independence.

Violet pulled her thoughts out of the past, and jumped the curb next to a secure car lot, driving out of view of the camera that covered the front part of the entrance. The low slung car slid with ease under the gate, less than an inch to spare. She drove it to the back of the lot, and pulled it into a spot in the far rear, out of sight. She didn't care about the damage she had caused jumping the curb, the car wasn't hers. Violet wiped down the interior, grabbed her laptop and her small duffel from the floor. She left the keys on the front seat, and walked off without a glance back.

Violet pulled out her mobile, and using the Find-A-Cab app, called for a taxi. It was the same app that Sherlock used, and one she had designed. Another way to bring in the bling. Though her pal got it for free.

_Now for the hard part! Avoiding Mycroft Holmes and helping Sherlock track down a pyscho bitch!_

* * *

><p>Sherlock struggled not to pass out. Violet had only been gone for a few minutes, and he knew she would be back. There was no time to waste.<p>

Mycroft locking him out of the system meant the government was kicking him out of the search for Death. And Mycroft would be looking for him. Violet was very skilled, but she was one woman, and his brother literally had an army.

Sherlock tugged the pregnancy test stick out of his pocket, and stared at it. Mary was pregnant. She was carrying John's child. Sherlock knew his doctor well; John would welcome a child, no matter who the mother was. John's capacity to love was bottomless, as clearly evidenced by the love he gave Sherlock without hesitation. So this child must live; which meant that Mary must live. She wouldn't have told Sherlock she was pregnant unless she wanted to have the baby. Mary didn't need to hide behind pregnancy to keep people from hurting her; she was more than able to keep herself safe. The trouble would come in keeping everyone else from killing Mary without telling the world she was pregnant. If Death learned she was pregnant, who knew what that madwoman would do? Mary might even end up a prisoner herself, instead of a free agent with full access to Death and her plans. So no one must know, other than a select few. If they could be trusted not to pull the trigger if given a clear shot.

"_Behave, and listen to me. They're coming back now." She leaned over him, and put her lips to his ear. "I was tasked with disabling you, and keeping you from the townhouse. It's too late to stop her, but you can follow. Find Blackwood, Sherlock, and you'll find Death. The river, you'll always see the river." Sherlock heard footsteps in the hall, mere feet from the doorway. "Look in your pocket. I'll help if I can."_

That moment came back to him in its entirety; she had given him a clue to find Death. Sherlock knew who she was, all the evidence was pointing straight at it. Who she was may very well lead to where she was. Now, to prove it, remove all doubt.

Violet came back in, locking and shutting the door behind her. Nine minutes and fifty three seconds after leaving him on the settee. She was good. He'd stomach his pride and go dancing with her. Hopefully with John, too. Though that was a conversation he wasn't looking forward to having.

"You still alive? I've got some cocktails from these Colombians I met in L.A. Excellent at killing all pain receptors, and knocking your education back a few years." Violet sat on the floor next to the settee, pulling out her laptop, and assorted other gear.

"Pain's manageable." He said, watching as she set up her mobile Internet access, the satellite connections, and her firewall. No one was going to be able to backtrack her to this place. "I'll prefer to remember my name for a while longer, thank you."

"Glad to see you kicked the substance habit. Just let me know if it gets too bad." She maneuvered herself so she was sitting against the settee, and he could watch over her shoulder. "Direct me, Mr. Holmes. Who we pissing off first?"

"I need to see what happened last night when John was taken." Sherlock said, stamping down on the pain and fear racing through his heart at the thought of John in danger. "I need to know how she got to him; I left him in Mycroft's bunker, he should have been safe."

"Yes, that's perfect! Hacking your big brother, literally! Ohhh sweet….." Sherlock ignored her mumbling, well used to it, even after all these years. She and Mycroft had a contentious relationship, to say the least. He watched as she hacked into the MI6 systems, pulled up the video footage of Mycroft's home, the bunker.

Sherlock watched, his heart in his throat, as Death blew up his brother's house. As she killed the security team, and accessed the bunker's door. As it opened for her. Sherlock's brow furrowed at that, but he would came back to it in a moment. The feeds continued on, and he saw John hold Death at gunpoint, until the traitor pulled a gun on Mycroft.

"Oh shit, a traitor? In Mycroft's house? Holy crap…." Violet breathed, as caught up as he in the scene unfolding. "John's got some guts, sexy."

Sherlock saw John give up his weapon, and he growled when he saw Death drop John to his knees, and blow the traitor's head off. Violet flinched, and buried her face in his arm for a second as the debris from the impact sprayed the men tied up on the floor.

"_Copy that, dear. Mission complete on my end. See you at home." _Sherlock's attention was caught by that phrase; Death hadn't repeated Mary's use of the word 'base'. She had said 'home'. He snapped himself away from that thought, and found himself wishing John was here, aside from the obvious reasons. John helped him focus.

Sherlock kept watching, anger building in him as she assaulted his brother, and knocked out Lestrade. She left them alive; she hadn't killed them. This worried Sherlock; it seemed that whatever her endgame was, she wanted people alive to see it. People she saw as involved, no matter how tenuously, in the death of Jim Moriarty.

"Ok, he was fine when she took him. Doesn't seem to have hurt in any; just a sore wrist." Violet said, ending the footage just as a new security team swept into the bunker and freed everyone.

"She means to keep him alive until I come for him, then she'll kill us all, and herself too." Sherlock said, leaning back on the armrest.

"Creepy and crazy, awesome." Violet turned her head, and met his eyes. "What next?"

"This all started when I came back from London, and stopped Lord Moran from destroying Parliament. She was playing as his wife for the last two years. No record of her existing before that, at all. We know from her actions at Blackwood Chemical, and the evidence gathered, that she was a disciple of Moriarty. The words she used were a variant of the same he used when he threatened me at the pool three years ago. She could only have known them if she were very close to him, or if she were there. I believe both. She is a skilled assassin, exceedingly talented. It's possible she was there that night, one of the snipers holding John and I under threat."

Violet settled in, and watched him. Watching this man pull the threads of a mystery together was never tiring. Like breaking an unbreakable code, it was addicting.

"She has had two years to exact vengeance. It's clear she knew I wasn't dead. So what made her not kill John, or Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson? All the other disciples had orders to kill them if I wasn't dead. She instead pretends to be a socialite, and stays wed to a man she had no issue killing the second he does something stupid. She acted only after Moran was arrested, as if he were the only thing stopping her. So what kept her hidden?"

Violet shrugged, and Sherlock smiled at her. "Well, it's obvious, really. She's out for vengeance for the death of Moriarty. She loved him, a great deal. The only reason she would restrain herself is if he had told her to stay hidden from the world. To keep her safe, unmolested. To be Sybil Moran, and not Death. Why would he care that much, even for his greatest disciple? The only reason he would care is if he loved her back."

Sherlock sat up, and gasped at the pain. "Now who would Moriarty love? He was a sociopath, purest form. It would have to be someone who had been in his life for a very long time, someone who had always been important. Moriarty wasn't one to keep pets of people, or to form strong attachments. So it wouldn't be a lover, or a friend. It would be family."

Sherlock nodded as Violet sucked in a breath in shock, her eyes wide. "Yes. Family. She is a Moriarty. And from her age, mannerisms, the way she speaks and moves, I'd say sister. She is so very similar to him, the only difference is that she is willing to be physical. Get her hands dirty. She was the blade, the sword; he was the master planner, the brains of the whole syndicate. He issued the orders, she executed them."

"Death is Jim Moriarty's sister."

* * *

><p><strong> Twenty-five years ago….. Blackwood Manor<strong>

"He scares me, Jimmy." She whispered, holding her brother's hand as she huddled on the seat, feeling brave as she peeked out the window to the ground far below. She was very brave for a little girl of five, her brother always said so. And she always listened to Jimmy. Her big brother was her best friend, and Mommy said he would always look out for her.

"Don't worry, I'm here. I won't let him get you." Jimmy tugged at a shiny brown curl that fell from her pigtail, very careful not to hurt. He was always playing with her, teasing her, pulling her after him as he got them both into trouble. But Jimmy was very smart, he always got them right back out.

Jimmy snuggled his baby sister under his arm, wincing when she pressed too hard against the sore spot on his ribs. Blackwood had caught Jimmy spying on him, and his fist had left a dark spot. Jimmy vowed next time not to get caught, he had to be better. He would be better. Blackwood was nasty, he was mean, and his eyes followed his little sister everywhere she went. Jimmy had promised his mother he would protect his baby sister with everything he had in him, no matter what happened.

Jimmy missed his old home, his old room, his Mom. She had brought them here after she got married to Blackwood, promising them bigger rooms, more friends, clean clothes, and presents for Christmas. All Jimmy had wanted was books, and a chemistry set like the boy in his year had. Jimmy liked books, he read all the time. Mommy was very proud of him, always said he was the fastest reader of all the seven-year olds she knew. Jimmy liked science and figuring out how things worked, and Mommy let him tear apart his toys, just to put them back together again.

Then Mommy got sad, and sick, and Blackwood got meaner. He had been mean before, but he had ignored the two little children before his wife began to tire him. Jimmy had heard Blackwood tell Mommy that it was all her fault, everything was her fault, and that she made him hurt her. Jimmy knew Blackwood was lying. Mommy never made bad things happen. She fixed the bad things. Jimmy wished she were here, so she could fix Blackwood. Keep him away from his baby sister.

Jimmy held his sister as she dosed against him, her tiny form warm on his bruises. Jimmy used to say all the time he remembered when she was born, a squalling bundle of mean screams. Jimmy would to brag to his Daddy about it, when ever she was really cranky or loud. Jimmy got sad as he remembered what his dad said to him.

_"Of course she's loud, lad! She's Irish, and a Moriarty!"_ Dad would ruffle his dark brown hair, and Jimmy would smile up at him. Daddy had been gone since Jimmy was five, same age his baby sister was now. Mommy had cried for a long time, and Jimmy took care of his sister.

Then Mommy had married Blackwood, and then Mommy got sick, and died. Jimmy was alone now, little Jaime, his baby sister, all he had left. Blackwood wanted to hurt Jaime, and Jimmy was going to stop him.

* * *

><p><strong>Now<strong>

Death lifted her head from her arms, where she had rested against the warm wood of the window seat. Her fingers traced the faint outlines of markings in the wood, the twin J's intertwined with the single M. She glanced at her hand, and smiled at the ring she wore. The M's matched, even years later.

"I will not fail you, Jimmy. You were the only person in this world I loved. The only man I loved. Whom I could stand to love. You kept me safe, no matter what. I never blamed you when you couldn't stop him." Death whispered to the letters scratched into the old wood, by childish hands. Jimmy had helped her, an act of rebellion one night long ago as they hid from their tormentor. "I told Moran the truth, the day I killed him. You were the man I loved more than anything in this world."

She smiled at herself. Calling him Jimmy again, just from seeing these marks. He hated it when he got older, preferring Jim. She had of course gone a step farther, and called him James. He had grumbled every time she did, as he always said he wanted to be called Jim, James sounded too much like Jaime. And she had complained, what's wrong with my name?

The world assumed her relationship with the late, great James Moriarty was something other than the truth. It had served to hide her identity, and his. Tracking two Moriarty children would have been easier than the one. She never even called herself Jaime anymore. No one left living knew that name. Had ever spoken it. Death had gone by so many names over the last two decades, and she held no emotional attachment to any of them. Just his name. Always his name. Her brother, her protector, her master. James Moriarty.

Her one true love. Ashes now. Ashes and rage. She would be with him soon, and she wouldn't be going alone.


	31. The Younger Moriarty

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**A huge thank you to all my reviewers, followers, everyone who has favored this story. **

**WARNING: Mentions of child abuse. Swearing. Brief violence.**

**Read, enjoy, review.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirty One<strong>

"_**The Younger Moriarty"**_

John jumped at the noise outside the door. He stood, ready to face whatever came through. No one had come to the door in hours, not since a dour faced guard had tossed in a sack full of bottled water and breakfast sandwiches from a deli. It was obvious their captors weren't using the house's kitchen. _Probably no one in this place knows what to do with a knife other than slit someone's throat with it._ It was well into evening now. The sun was setting, intense orange colors burnishing the walls and floor.

Someone was unlocking the door, and sure enough, it was opening. John stiffened in dismay. It was Death. She pushed the door open with her fingertips, and gave him an endearing smile; or it would have been if it wasn't from her. John glanced at the bed. The girls were asleep, but for Molly. She sat up quickly, and John motioned for her to stay on the bed.

Death stepped in, just at the threshold, leaving the door wide. John could see past her, at the two guards at her back. She was dressed all in black, from the black band that held her hair back from her face, all the way down to her combat books. Their captor was beautiful, so much so that John was disturbed. Such evil shouldn't be allowed to look so wonderful. She had no weapons beyond her knife; but then she didn't need a gun, as the men behind her were armed, and had their guns trained on him. The long silver blade was the only flash of light about her, and it glimmered menacingly from the sheath on her thigh. She looked disconcertingly lovely. As if the past weeks had been nothing but a bad dream, and she was just visiting friends.

"Hello, John. Settled in nicely, I see." Death said, her voice low. Molly was shaking, and Death smiled sweetly at her. For some reason this made Molly flinch, and John fought to control his rage that boiled up from the depths. He would be able to help no one if he was dead.

"Leave her alone." John said. He moved between Death and Molly, not caring that her guards reacted. Death raised her hand, and they stayed back in the hall.

"I'm just here to say hello. No need to get upset." Death said, and walked in the room, moving around him like he wasn't standing between her and the bed. John clenched his fists, and it took all he had not to snap her neck as she brushed by him.

"And how are my guests? Molly? You look a little ill." Death sat on the bed, and her movement woke Anthea and Donovan. Neither moved, their eyes locked on their captor. Molly bit her lip, and her eyes were begging John to make the monster leave her alone.

"What do you want? You've already done enough to them." John growled. Death ignored him, and continued to look at Molly. As if she were an interesting new animal at the zoo, one she hadn't expected to see.

"Molly. Now that I've spared you, I'm finding myself curious. Is there more to Molly Hooper than meets the eye? There almost always is, with women at least. And then, there is the men in your life. You so briefly held James' attention all those years ago." Death said, her tone sickly sweet and somehow predatory. "And the great Sherlock Holmes is very fond of you, as well."

"What's the matter, you jealous? Your psycho boyfriend paid attention to another woman and you think you'll come in here and torture her? Leave her alone." John said, standing as close as he dared to Death, keeping an eye on her twitchy guards. He'd say anything to get her to leave Molly alone.

"Psycho boyfriend?" Death whispered, and Molly pushed back towards the headboard at the look on her face. Death breathed in deep, and held it. She rose, and John mentally cursed himself, thinking he was going to get a repeat of last night. She slowly turned, and looked him in the face. His blood ran cold. Her eyes were madness. John would say until his dying day that he caught a glimpse of an abyss in them. There was nothing sane in them. Death stood so close to him that she was only inches away. He could smell her shampoo, and the slightest hint of peppermint.

She spoke, but not to him. She kept her eyes locked on his, and addressed Molly.

"Molly, tell Dr Watson who I am." Death ordered, her voice a low purr, sensual and dark.

John saw Molly shake her head in denial, and the other women sat up, gazing at Molly too. John focused on Molly, who was biting her lip, and looking at her feet. _What does Molly know?_

"Molly, my dear. You recognized me instantly when I came for you at St Bart's Hospital. Tell your friends who I am." Death put an edge of command into her voice, and Molly jumped.

"You…. You have his eyes. Jim's eyes." Molly stammered out. She took a deep breath, and continued. "Same pattern to the irises, same colors and depths."

Death smiled, and John felt the revelation all the way to his bones. This was so much worse than a girlfriend avenging a lost love. _No no no…._

"She is …. Moriarty's sister." Molly said, her voice full of fear. John backed up a step, suddenly terrified to be so near. Hearing it spoken aloud made the light dim, the air grow heavy._ This isn't possible. She can't be. Dear God, she is!_

When Sherlock had brought up the video feed of Sybil Moran and her husband on the day Moran died, John had felt a powerful sense of familiarity. The woman before him had struck a chord, as if he knew her. He realized now that he hadn't been seeing her; he had seen the ghost of her brother. He was there in her, from the way she tilted her head, to the expressive eyes that shone brightly with their inner fires. They were alike as siblings could be without being twins. All the way down to the madness.

Death let John look, and she could see in his face the recognition, the way her eyes matched her big brother's so exactly. "Men, always taking so long to see things, even small details. Well, most men_._ Sherlock had seen as soon as I was close enough. Meek Molly Hooper had known immediately."

"Hello, John Watson." Death sighed dramatically, and swept her hands out wide. "A long time ago, I was once Jaime Moriarty. Welcome to my childhood home." Death laughed, her voice beautiful and horrid all at the same time. As she spoke, the socialite-influenced tones fell away, and John could hear a hint of the fair green isle in her voice. _She even sounds like him_!

"Dear God." John wasn't even aware he spoke out loud, not until she laughed softly.

"Poor Sherlock. Wonder how he'll handle knowing that if Molly had just seen a picture of me days ago, that none of this might have happened? He might have found me by now, and instead of everyone he loves feeling my pain, it would just be the two of us." Death walked to the window, lazily staring out through the glass. She lifted her hand, moving it in the brilliant rays of the setting sun. Long shadows fell from her fingers, while the dying sun set the top of her hand on fire. John could almost believe she was burning in that moment, before she dropped her hand. Her next words struck him to his soul. "Now, the whole of London shall burn. I can't wait to feel the flames, can you?"

John had nothing to say, no words to offer this madwoman. She would do as she chose, and the only way to stop her was in death. John found himself wishing he had taken the shot in the bunker, before her traitor pulled on Mycroft. They might all be dead as a result but London would be safe.

"Oh well, hardly matters now. This will all be over soon anyway. Just waiting on Sherlock. My men should be finishing up the last details anytime now." Death said cheerfully, turning to face John. He was still staring at her, his mind and soul disturbed to a degree he hadn't known possible by the fact that this creature was a Moriarty. Suddenly it seemed as if all hope was lost. As if her bloodline made her even more deadly.

_There was more than one in the world, and we never knew. Evil's been with us the whole time….._

"I went to visit your lover last night, John." She didn't react as he paled, hands making fists. John was afraid of what she would say next. She was calm, with a teasing smile hovering about her lips. "He was in the hospital, heavily sedated and suffering from several broken ribs and a lacerated lung."

John sucked in a breath, worry making him feel ill. Sherlock was in a bad way indeed if one of his ribs had lacerated his lung. He could begin to bleed internally, and die a slow death. It could collapse if he did anything strenuous. Like trying to rescue John and stop Moriarty's disciple. _Sister, his sister!_

"He was lucid enough to recognize me. It was very sweet. He seemed to know who I was the second we kissed." Death tossed that out casually. As if she kissed Sherlock Holmes every day. "You're very lucky, darling. He's a great kisser."

He snapped. It was too much. John growled deep in his throat, anger making his vision go red. He didn't even realize he took a step forward until the click of the gun in his ear made him stop. The cold end of a barrel pressed to his temple, and he froze.

"John. Don't be difficult." Mary said. She had come from nowhere, her approach silent.

"Mary! Wonderful of you to stop by. Don't mind John, dear. He's just a teensy bit jealous." Death smirked at him. John swallowed, and felt his anger fade. Something else was taking its place. Betrayal and heart ache.

John relaxed as the barrel pulled away from his head, and he turned. Mary held a gun leveled directly at him, her gorgeous blue eyes bright with something he couldn't place. It looked like fear, but she had nothing to fear from him. She had the gun. She stood as if the gun weighed nothing, one arm holding it perfectly aimed for her chosen kill spot, unmoving. Mary held the weapon as if she had been born wielding it.

John looked past the gun, and his heart was breaking anew at the look on her face. He knew this woman, regardless of her lies. He knew that expression on her face. Everything in him was saying that she was begging him to stop, to behave. Her expression was superficially neutral, but for the stress around her eyes and mouth.

_Why is she worried? She's worried and yet she pulls a gun and points it at my temple…. But she is worried, I see it in her eyes…._ John nodded slightly, so vaguely that only she could see, being so close to him. He didn't know what to think. This Mary, in this way, was so alien to him, yet so very familiar.

Mary stepped back, and lowered the gun. She kept her finger on the trigger, ready to bring it back up at a moment's notice. Anthea was sitting up, her expression blank but watchful, and Donovan looked like she wanted to jump off the bed and start hitting someone. Molly was pale, eyes dancing between the three of them as they stood in the middle of the room.

Death giggled in glee as she walked to Mary's side. Death stroked a hand across the back of Mary's shoulder, and hugged her with one arm. John felt his stomach roll as Death leaned in, and kissed Mary on her bruised cheek.

"Nice to know where your loyalties lie, Mary. I admit, I was concerned." Death nuzzled her face in Mary's ear, and Mary didn't shrug her off. Mary had yet to take her eyes off John. Her eyes were screaming something at him, but John was distracted by the very disturbing image of Jim Moriarty's sister nuzzling his ex-fiancé.

"I was coming to tell you that your teams have returned. They're waiting in the ballroom for their debriefing. Team leaders informed me that they have your packages." Mary said evenly. As if Death snuggled with her every day. For all John knew, they could be more than old acquaintances. They could even be lovers. His stomach threatened to revolt at the thought, and he bit his tongue. _I will NOT vomit in front of them._

"Excellent timing on their part! I'll just be off then. I'll be back later, John, ladies. Do enjoy your stay, I'll see about dinner." Death planted one last kiss on Mary's cheek, her eyes lighting up in delight as she saw John's jaw clench in anger. John had the sneaking suspicion that she was messing with him.

Death turned, and walked into the hall. She pulled her silver knife from its thigh sheath, and John could see her tossing it into the air as she went down the long hall. The blade cut a silver blaze of light as it tumbled through the air before being caught in long slim fingers, just to be tossed right back up. The madwoman was practically skipping in joy. Whatever her men had just done, it made her happy. And that terrified John.

The two guards repositioned themselves, one of them peeling off from the door and following behind his mistress. The other moved away from the door, as if trusting that Mary could keep them all in line. And John had no doubt that she could.

"John." Mary's voice snapped him back from watching Death disappear down the stairs.

"Mary." He let his voice convey his anger, disappointment, and the pain, all of it.

"I bargained for the lives of your friends. I couldn't do the same for you. Don't give her a reason to hurt you." Mary warned him, her voice sharp, as if she were trying to hide fear behind anger. She clicked the safety on the gun as she tucked it in the holster on her thigh.

John's eyes were drawn by the movement, and his nerves tingled when he saw the weapon. She had his gun. Mary was using his service weapon, the one Death took from him in the bunker. His eyes darted up to hers, and she gave just the barest hint of acknowledgment. It was the tiniest of smiles, at odds with the tension between them. Her eyes were hypnotic, and John couldn't look away. She seemed to be waiting for something, and John remembered with a jolt that she had warned him.

"Ah, sure. I'll keep that in mind." John replied, his voice vague. The guard was back in the doorway, as if waiting for Mary to leave. She nodded curtly to the man behind her, and she left, holding his eyes until the last second. The guard shut the door, the lock snapping loudly in the quiet left behind in her wake.

"This is so not good." John murmured, and sat on the edge of the bed. He stared at the door, trying to make sense of the last ten minutes. "She's a Moriarty. Dear God."

John could hear Anthea and Donovan whispering behind him, discussing the identity of their host. Molly crawled up next to him, and rested her head on his shoulder. "What did she mean, Sherlock 'was' in the hospital?"

"Yeah, I caught that too. Sherlock's escaped the hospital. He's closing in on Death." John replied, voice low, not wanting to let the guard hear him. "I just hope for his sake that he's got help."

"Sherlock will save us." There was no doubt in Molly's voice, and John smiled at her conviction.

_I just hope he has someone to save him. I'm currently unavailable. Be careful, Sherlock._

* * *

><p>"Violet, see how she got the bunker door to open. See if it was the turncoat, or if she had some other means in." Sherlock said to the woman sitting cross-legged on the floor beside his settee.<p>

"Yeah, sure. Gimme a sec." Violet attacked her laptop, and Sherlock watched the lines of code fly by on the screen. The joys of having your own hacker. Almost as good as having your own doctor.

Sherlock felt a stab of pain that hurt worse than his ribs. John. She had him. A Moriarty had John. _Focus dammit! You can't help him if all you can do is sit here and worry!_

"Hey, here we go. Looks like that ID has been in there for…Wow, let me pile on the sarcasm! What a coincidence. The night you caught Moran." Violet kept clicking away, and Sherlock saw her pull up the ID on the screen. There was no picture with the name. "Says it belongs to Moriarty, J."

"Hhhhhhmmm. 'J' for Jim? Or perhaps that's her initial?" Sherlock mused. "I think it's likely that the 'J' is hers, as if she's poking fun at the whole situation. Most would assume it's his name, but that's too obvious. We all know she's out to avenge Moriarty, not use his name…."

"I think it's hers. If they're siblings, it stands to reason that their names could have the same initials. Parents lack originality like that no matter where you're from." Violet grumbled. "And women aren't that silly. Sorry. We just aren't. We wouldn't go around using our dead brother's name, that's just weird."

"Violet, bring up the files that MI6 gave Scotland Yard, the ones on Moriarty. The files they used to clear my name." Sherlock asked, trying in vain to get comfortable on the settee.

"Sure, I've already got them on my hard drive. I've been following along since you pulled your swan dive maneuver." She threw him a look as he continued to shift and fidget. "I really think you either need to lie down, or let me stick you with one of my cocktails. Sweetie, you look like you're about to die."

Sherlock thought about it, biting his lip. He couldn't afford to turn off his brain. John needed him. Screw the rest of the world, he needed to rescue John. For John he'd stay sober.

"Any adrenaline left?" He asked, willing to compromise.

"Only got a couple left. Think we should save those until we actually need to move." Violet said, her face clearly showing her concern and exasperation. Violet wasn't one to be subtle. "Mycroft will eventually catch on; he'll figure you couldn't get out on your own. And there are only so many people you'd call. I can theoretically hold him off forever, but I'll have an easier time of it if we change locations. We'll need to leave in the next day or so if we can't find Moriarty."

"I know, I know." Sherlock waved her concern away, finally giving up and resting fully on his back. The strain of holding himself up eased, and he didn't have to fight as hard to breathe. "I need to find John. Don't let me sleep. Please."

"But….." She paused as she caught his eye; for the first time in their long relationship, he had a pleading look about him that just slapped her heart in all the right places. "Oh, fuck it. I won't let you sleep. But if you pass out and start to die, I'm calling your brother. And it's gotta be bad for me to call him."

He just gave her a smirk, and waved at her to get back to the files. She huffed, and pulled them up.

"Okay, what am I after?" Violet asked, idly scrolling through the files she'd stolen from MI6.

"Track big brother Jim as far back as you can. Skip long breaks in time; go back to the earliest record of him anyone could find." Sherlock figured they might as well start at the beginning. "And see if Scotland Yard and MI6 had any luck in finding out where that bloody boat went. The one Miss Moriarty used to get to Blackwood."

"_The river, you'll always see the river." _Mary's voice came to him past the pain, circling in his head. "Never mind tracking him. She said that if I found Blackwood, I'd find Death. And that I'd always see the river."

"Who said?" Violet asked, twisting around, almost spilling her laptop on to the floor.

"Mary, before she knocked me out." Sherlock murmured, wondering at her phrasing. "Find Blackwood? We know where Blackwood is, why say to find it? Unless….. There's more than one Blackwood."

"Mary? John's ex-girlfriend? She's on our side now?" Violet set her computer down, as it ran its search through the files on Moriarty. She had typed in the Blackwood name, and the computer was working its magic. "Okay, I wasn't expecting that. But hurray for having our own inside girl. Go Team Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't respond, as he thought around the pain. He had just learned how deeply he could breathe without the stabbing sensation in his chest. Mary would be useful for certain if they found where Death was hiding. And keeping her safe through it all was paramount.

"She said that if I found Blackwood, I'd find Death. And that I'd always see the river. So let's assume that there is another Blackwood, not just the chemical plant. And since we could see the river from the plant, and Mary said we'd always see it, perhaps there is another Blackwood out there that's on the river as well."

Sherlock struggled, pain fogging his mind. There was something he needed to know. "I couldn't find out who owned the chemical plant. All I could remember was that the owner died twenty years ago. How do I know that? I remember the name, and that the owner died."

"Do you recall when you first learned that?" Violet asked. She had a particular look on her face, brow furrowed in thought. Sherlock caught on quickly; he knew what she was getting at. Find the origination of the memory, and perhaps he could fill in the blanks.

"No, but I will momentarily. I'll be stepping out for a moment…."

Sherlock closed his eyes, and dived past the pain, the weariness, and his fears for John. He went deep, looking for that moment in his life when he had learned about Blackwood. It was there, what he needed to know. He saw a glimmer of it, that memory. It was beckoning to him, and he followed. The streets and buildings of his internal city fell away, and he soared over the rolling green hills of his childhood. He trusted Violet not to disturb him; she had seen him do this many times. Rather like John….

He found himself standing in his parent's kitchen, looking at a very young version of himself reading his father's newspapers at the table. His mother was making breakfast, scolding him absent-mindedly when he dropped a section on the floor. He ignored her, as he usually did, and kept on reading. Sherlock moved through the illusion of his childhood home, coming around behind his younger self.

Sherlock smiled at the Irish Setter hiding under Little Sherlock's chair. Redbeard, his friend, always with him; faithful until his last days. Sherlock grinned as the dog gently beat its stubby tail on the floor, his memory supplying a moment of comfort. The ghost of his long deceased companion wormed his way out from under his young master's chair, and came in answer to the soft whisper of heartache from the grown version. Sherlock reached out, and welcomed the joyous sting of pain as he ran his fingers through the silky fur, felt the soft tongue as Redbeard kissed his hand.

"Hello, old friend. I miss you too." Sherlock said, throat tight with tears he refused to shed. He had cried them all for this animal's passing years ago; he would cry no more. He would remember the good times.

"You should come visit him more often, you know. He gets lonely." Little Sherlock piped up, not lifting his head from the papers on the table. His voice at this age was high and squeaky, and Sherlock winced at the reminder. "Would do you some good, too."

"Ah, but I'm not a child anymore, or so Mycroft keeps reminding me." Grown Sherlock replied, unperturbed that he was speaking to himself. This wasn't the weirdest thing he'd ever done, by far. He kept petting his dog, and peered over his own shoulder at the papers on the table.

"Mike is boring." Little Sherlock said, snickering as Mummy glared at him from the stove. "Well, he is."

"Yes, Mike is boring, and he hasn't improved with age either." Grown Sherlock replied, pulling out a chair next to his younger self. Redbeard followed, and rested his head on his master's knee. Sherlock kept on stroking the silky head as he pushed the papers around, smiling at the melting brown eyes of his very first friend.

"You going to ask what you came here to ask? Our John needs us." Little Sherlock finally turned to look at him, and Sherlock was struck by how much he had, and hadn't, changed in all the years since. His hair was wilder as a child, the curls tighter, and going every which way. His eyes were the same. His mother's eyes. It was a gift she had only shared with her youngest, those indescribable eyes of hers.

The illusion of his mother responded to his subconscious, and he looked up as she turned from the stove, throwing him a wink and a smile. He got quite a bit from his mother, though he'd never say so. For all her scatterbrained ways, his mother was a genius. Give her an impossible equation, and she'd solve it faster than most people thought; ask her to drive to town for groceries, or for help in finding a lost jumper before school, and you'd have better chances with the dog. She glared at him as she caught his line of thought. Sherlock realized he was disciplining himself as his mother while sitting in the mind-palace version of his old home while petting the ghost of his dead dog while he got impatient with himself from the seat next to himself.

_Okay, time to focus. I'm starting to confuse myself._

"Blackwood. This is where I first heard the name. Read about the owner dying." Sherlock turned from the illusion of his mother, and focused on his younger self. Little Sherlock was glaring at him, and Grown Sherlock stifled a smile. "I need the whole memory."

"Oh, that memory! I just read all about Blackwood. Here, in the _Times_." Little Sherlock snatched at a paper across the table, and pulled it back to him, imperiously holding it away from Grown Sherlock as he reached for it. "I found it, I'll read it."

"Go on, then." Sherlock waved a hand at himself, and smiled at Redbeard. He forgot how annoying he could be. Little Sherlock glared at him again, and sniffed haughtily. His younger self snapped the paper out straight, sat up in his seat, and began to read aloud.

"_Lord Vincent Charles Milverton, Eighth Earl of Blackwood, was found dead yesterday in the private study of his residence outside London, Blackwood Manor. Authorities are investigating the circumstances of his death, and inside sources are quoted as saying the earl_ _had a history of emotional and mental issues, and there is a suspicion of suicide. He was the sole owner of Blackwood Chemical Treatment and Storage Facility, which is to be closed while the investigation is ongoing."_

"_Lord Blackwood is preceded in death by his second wife, Elise Milverton nee Moriarty. He is survived by his two stepchildren. Due to the circumstances of his passing and the ages of the children, this paper shall not disclose their names."_

Sherlock remembered it all. It struck him in its entirety as a force of nature upon the face of the world. He was the lone tall oak in hot summer fields, as lightning strikes from the heavens. The recollection was powerful, and Sherlock let it fill him up, pull him from his comfortable memories. Little Sherlock gazed back at him, eyes bright in the shared memory.

_I have known for decades…. All this time. I had a clue within me the entire time. The universe never gives me coincidences….And only I can be a big enough idiot not to see it! I must go back now… I am so tired. I'm never this tired here. I never feel exhaustion here…_

The younger version of himself suddenly jumped up from the kitchen table, and whistled for his dog. The rear kitchen door opened of its own accord, and Grown Sherlock watched as he ran out into intensely green fields, his faithful dog yapping at his heels. The light was bright, but didn't hurt his eyes. Every fiber of his being was telling him to step through that door. To follow, and be free in the sun, as he had been as a child. But he couldn't. John needed him.

Sherlock took one last look, around the room he had spent so much of his time in as a child. One last look before he focused on the voice calling to him, with an edge of fear laced with exasperation. He pulled himself away, ignoring the temptation to stay. Back to the world, and the crazy American shouting in his ear.

"Sherlock! Jesus, wake up! Don't make me call Mycroft!" Violet was almost screaming, her hand on his shoulder, shaking him as hard as she dared.

"Violet, you keep shaking me, I'll pass out for real." Sherlock grumbled as he blinked at the single lamp in the room. "I'm fine."

Violet snapped her mouth shut, annoyance and fear fairly obvious on her face. She narrowed her eyes at him, her nose crinkling up exactly as it used to when she was a teenager and he caught her stealing PIN's for pocket cash. Not that he stopped her; she just got annoyed when he caught her.

"We need to find Blackwood Manor." Sherlock said, ignoring the cranky face of his partner in crime. He struggled to sit up, and collapsed when his body reminded him that while his mind might be in fine working order, the rest of him wasn't. There was a different pain in his chest, and Sherlock felt a wave of dizziness come over him. He breathed lightly, and the dizzy spell lessened.

"Ooooohhhkay." Violet drew out the word. "So I shouldn't worry about the fact that I was fairly certain you were dead, just now?"

"What? No, I'm fine. Just had a moment." Sherlock tossed her a look, and she threw up her hands. "Find all of the properties of Lord Vincent Milverton, Eighth Earl of Blackwood. Blackwood Manor. He died nineteen years and ten months ago, suspected suicide. Suspicious circumstances. He was married to a woman named Elise Moriarty, and he had two stepchildren."

"Holy crap. I need to get me one of those mind palaces." Violet forgot all about being worried, and dived for her laptop. Her fingers flew over the keys, and she was doing an admirable job of imitating him at his most focused. "Oh, um Mycroft's people are back in the system, and someone's noticed all the movement. I think they think I'm the crazy chick, or something. They keep trying to track me down, and getting disappointed when they can't."

"I would tell him that it's just us, but that would be playing fair." Sherlock snickered, not really caring that his brother's people were trying to track them. Violet was the best in the world. You only found her if she let you.

"Yeah, I was monitoring Scotland Yard while you were pretending to be dead over there, and everyone is looking for you. Lestrade's called in every single cop this side of the pond."

"Obviously they aren't succeeding." Sherlock murmured, the clicking of the laptop keys soothing. He let his eyes drift shut, and concentrated on breathing as normally as possible.

"Nope, they're failing rather spectacularly. Your brother's boyfriend is cute, by the way. Silver fox thing does it for me." Violet didn't notice Sherlock's look of complete befuddlement, his eyes flying open to lock on the back of her head. "Looks like love really is contagious."

_Lestrade is Mycroft's WHAT?! Sure they're close, I suppose… They did just spend two days in the same bed. Must have just happened. Oww, now my head hurts. Will not think about it, will not think about it….Dammit._

"Explain, please." Sherlock couldn't help himself. He had to ask.

"Yeah, I've got access to the camera feeds for Mycroft's street, the house, and bunker, all of it. Caught a blurry vid of them making out in front of his house before dawn this morning." Violet dropped that nugget of information, still not seeing his face. Sherlock was suddenly wishing for a morphine drip for a whole new set of reasons. "I saved it to my personal 'I told you so' file. I can show you if you wanna see."

"No, thank you. I'm fine." He was certain he never wanted to see that. Ever. "And he had the audacity to judge me for sleeping with John."

"He does that again, I'll beat him up for you. Just like the old days." Violet gave him a cocky grin over her shoulder before she went back to her laptop. A small window popped up in the corner of the screen, and she opened it quickly. "Scotland Yard had no luck finding the boat."

"Not surprised." Sherlock said, not minding as Violet slouched farther down the side of the settee, her head resting on his arm. She drew her legs up, and balanced the laptop precariously on her knees. "Somehow I don't see that helping us out right now."

"Don't you Brits have a registry for all the titled people in this country? Wouldn't that be the fastest way to find Blackwood?" Violet didn't even wait for him to answer, she hopped on the Internet, and suddenly the screen was teeming with websites following the British peerage. "Wow, the sheer amount of people obsessed with you guys is insane. Look at all the anglophiles! This is a goldmine!"

"Blackwood, Blackwood….. Here we go! Yup, that doesn't help. The title went extinct when he died. No heirs." Violet wasn't even paying attention to him; she kept on scrolling, switching windows and clicking on everything. "Looks like property was sold off, including the houses, cars, everything except the chemical plant. It hadn't been run correctly in years, no one wanted it."

"Government condemned the property fifteen years ago." Sherlock whispered, fighting the urge to close his eyes. The entire day had been nothing but pain and worry. He was so tired. "Find Blackwood Manor, it's on the river."

"Sherlock, you're falling asleep." Violet rolled her head back and forth on his forearm, making him blink away the cobwebs. Her shoulder-length jet black hair shone in the low light from the single lamp. "You said you didn't want to sleep."

"Hhhmmm." Sherlock blinked again, and took a deep breath. "Help me up."

"Um, why?"

"Bathroom." He stated. _Not elaborating…_

"Oh, joys. Hope you can handle your business in there, not my area of expertise. This creepy fake house has a bathroom?"

"And a kill room. This once belonged to the Clarence House Cannibal."

"Sweet." Violet snapped shut her laptop, and stood, reaching down for him. "The cannibal isn't going to stop by for tea, is he?"

"Oh no, I caught her years ago."

"Her? Wicked."

* * *

><p>Lestrade was beyond frustrated, beyond depressed. He had returned to Scotland Yard, and been inundated by questions about Donovan. He had been ordered by Mycroft not to reveal her fate, nor that of Molly Hooper and Anthea. The entire operation was to be handled as quietly as possible. He had tried not to give anything away, but he couldn't control the grief that had come over him at the questions from his people. They knew him well enough that they had seen the truth, without him saying a word.<p>

So he had endured the painful outcries, the vows to find the person responsible, the anger and fear. He had let his people vent, and then held hard to his resolve as he ordered them back to work. They couldn't stop Donovan's killer standing around filling sorry for themselves. It was if he had thrown ice water on fighting dogs, so shocked was the room. He had told them what he could, that Sherlock Holmes was on the case, and currently missing. That he was in danger, and for them to solve Sally's murder, they needed to find Holmes.

But then he was rewarded, and made proud. Every one of his people had pulled it together, and sprinted for their desks, the phones, and heading out to follow up leads, no matter how tenuous. Every one of his officer's had jumped back into work, determined to avenge their sister.

Lestrade shut his office door, and rested his head on the back of it. He tried pulling his thoughts away from the knowledge that Sally's desk was less than three feet from the door to his office. It was exactly as she had left it, all those days ago. Her cluttered desk, overrun by files, the long forgotten flower sitting on the corner, the computer humming, pulled up on the case she had been working the day she went missing. She had a pair of high heeled shoes under the desk, one fallen over on its side. Some kind of shiny black leather strappy things. Her bag was sitting open over the back of her chair, one strap fallen from the seatback. Her space was exactly as she had left it, and well warned was anyone who touched it now.

Lestrade had seen it before. When officers died. The desk was always left untouched, a shrine of sorts to the person who had used it. Left as it was the last time he or she were there, to be packed up only after the funeral. To be packed up by him. She had been his officer, his sergeant. Sally had been almost a partner, as much as he was allowed to have with an officer under his command. And she had been very dear to him.

Sally Donovan had been a prickly, snarky, rude, stubborn woman. She had always been quick to judge, but he knew there had been no malice in her heart. She was too stubborn to let go of her initial opinions, and that had hindered her many times on cases. But he had seen in her potential, to be one of the best. He had chosen her out of so many young officers, and did his best to steer her right.

It had taken Sherlock's Fall to finally get through to her. To break her cycle of judge first, learn later. It had been a hard lesson, and one that had taken years for her to absorb. And she would have kept evolving and growing, if not for the cruelty of fate, and a madwoman's blade.

Lestrade bit back a sob, covering his mouth tightly with his hand. He would allow himself no more tears. No more pain, no more lost days crying and bemoaning his helplessness. He would find Sherlock, find Death, and avenge his friend. His Sally. Even if it meant blowing Death's head off himself.

* * *

><p>Sally sat back against the headboard, shifting slightly in a vain attempt to get comfortable. Her head was killing her, the long slash on her neck stinging her as she shifted.<p>

Death had left them all in shock. Her admission to being Jaime Moriarty, sister to the madman Jim Moriarty, had been as devastating as a wrecking ball through the walls of a home. Sally cast a look at Anthea, who was sitting up next to her, cradling her broken arm to her chest.

"So, we're really screwed, aren't we?" Sally murmured to the MI6 agent, biting her lip.

"It's starting to look like it, yes." Anthea whispered back, and Sally caught her eye.

Both women broke out in giggles, laughing at the sheer absurdity of the entire situation. They had all been through the trauma of having their deaths faked, without them knowing. They had been kidnapped, their bodies stripped and battered, and left in a cage like animals. And here they were now, in a room together, sharing a single bed, three women and one very angry doctor. Held captive by the epitome of baddies, a Moriarty. _I think that's the definition of screwed for certain!_

John turned around, and Sally started giggling anew at the surprised look on the doctor's face. She could only shrug at him as Anthea broke out in trilling laughter, leaning against her shoulder. Sally couldn't stop laughing, and Molly wasn't helping. She kept looking back and forth between the officer and the agent, her face clearly saying that she was afraid they'd snapped under the pressure of the last few days.

"Hey, it's either laugh, or cry." Sally choked out, and kept on laughing.

* * *

><p>"Sir. We have some news." The new aide said, face blank, posture stiff.<p>

"What? It had better be useful." Mycroft snapped out, perversely pleased when he made the aide stiffen up further.

The bunker had been swept, all traces of Death and blood removed. Mycroft had summoned a new team from headquarters, and sent all of his old aides to be debriefed. Where there was one traitor, there might be more.

"There has been some suspicious activity in the last few hours in the systems. MI6, MI5, the military command networks, Scotland Yard, the Royal Services network, everywhere."

"Explain." This must be Death. She must have an access point somewhere in the system.

"Someone is searching through classified data. We can't see what exactly, as the footprints are being erased almost as soon as we notice them. We are catching glimpses. And most of it appears to be sporadic. If it wasn't for the fact that these areas are all maintained daily, we would almost think it was a malfunction. Our tech experts are suggesting this is actually a person, shifting through classified files."

"A single person? Not a virus or a program?" Mycroft asked, and he felt a tightening in his muscles. He had a vague thought, and a sinking feeling in his gut. Sherlock had escaped from the hospital, and he couldn't have done it on his own. He had been too injured. Someone he trusted had helped him. And now someone was hacking the British Government.

"Yes, sir. And whoever this person is, he or she is the best we've ever seen." The aide said, and his opinion of the skill level of the hacker was clear in his voice.

"I think I know who that would be. Keep watching." Mycroft said, and he waved the aide back to work.

There was only one person in the world who fit the description of 'the best'. And her name was Violet Hunter.

Mycroft pulled out his mobile, and dialed. Whether or not she answered would depend mostly on her mood. But he had to try. He had to know if Sherlock was okay. And he really wanted to know if she had found Death yet.

* * *

><p>Violet was typing, sitting on the floor outside the bathroom door. She was waiting for Sherlock to finish, praying he wouldn't need help in there. She hadn't exaggerated, she had no expertise with men and biological needs. Wanted none, really.<p>

She tilted her head, glad she could hear water running in the sink. He was well enough to wash his hands, at least.

Violet stiffened up as she heard him cough through the door, stilling her fingers over the keyboard. He spit into the sink, and Violet bit her lip. She may not be well versed in medicine, but she had seen his chart, and knew a lung was damaged. It was most likely blood. She just hoped he wouldn't push himself further. She really didn't want to talk to Mycroft Holmes at all.

It was if her thoughts summoned him. Violet pulled her cell out as it started to vibrate, and she squirmed on the hard concrete floor as she saw the caller ID. No one else would be able to see who was calling from that restricted number, but no one else was Violet Hunter.

Violet stared at it, and hit Denied. She would answer only after talking to Sherlock. What she had found while he was in the bathroom was important.

"Your brother is on to us, Sherlock." Violet said over her shoulder, talking through the door. "He just called me."

The door opened, and Violet looked at the pale consulting detective. He was leaning on the doorjamb, hands holding tight. His eyes looked like they were bruised, dark blue and reds surrounding them. He wavered, and Violet feared he might fall. She snapped her laptop shut, and put her cell back. Violet pushed herself up on her feet, and didn't complain when Sherlock draped an arm over her shoulder. She started off slowly for the room with the settee, taking her time.

"Did you answer?" Sherlock asked, his face so pale Violet's heart trembled.

"No, I'll call him back though if you want. I dumped your mobile at the hospital." Violet said, and carefully lowered him down on the dusty cushions of the settee. Sherlock leaned aback, his head lolling over the back cushions.

"I have to tell you something." Sherlock said, and he fixed his diamond bright eyes on her. Violet swallowed nervously, and hugged her laptop to her.

"Okay, go ahead. You're acting like you're about to dump me, so let's hurry up with the bad news." Violet was watching his face, and was rewarded with the tiniest of smiles.

"No, it's good news. Usually the best news. At least I'm assuming it is, I've never had the experience. This time it's just difficult." Sherlock sighed, and pulled something small, white and slim from his pocket. Violet's eyes widened as she recognized it, and Sherlock dropped it on the seat next to him. "Mary Morstan is pregnant with John's baby. That's why she's now on 'Team Sherlock'."

"Holy banana peels on a sidewalk, Batman! That's a trip!" Violet sputtered, then thought past the usual happy baby thoughts. "Oh shit, that's not good. She's on the 'kill on sight list.' Mycroft is gunning for her just as hard as Death."

"Yes, and there is the issue. Mary must live. She wants the baby. John is to be a father, and I know he would want this child too. I love John, with everything that's in me. I want this for him." Sherlock sat up, and she held back from helping him. He would only need help if he reached for her first. "Mycroft and the government will not care at this juncture that Mary is expecting. Acceptable collateral damage. Once we find where Death is, and if we tell Mycroft, we won't be able to stop him from killing Mary as he storms wherever they may be."

"Yeah… and John won't be happy." Violet said. She bit her lip, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. He could always read her so well. "I found Blackwood Manor."

Sherlock blinked, and she saw a glimmer of something in his eyes. Hope.

"Tell me."

"It took so long because it's been passed through so many hands over the last twenty years. Renamed, rezoned, sold and resold. It was bought by its current owner five years ago. It was renamed to Copper Beeches Estate when it was purchased the last time. The new title was processed under the ownership of a Ms. Jaime Brook."

"Jaime Brook? How delightful. Richard Brook was the alias Moriarty used when he was staging my downfall. It seems likely Jaime is his sister."

"I found the estate, it's over an hour away, towards the sea, on the river. There's some Google maps shots of it, and it's pretty damn big. Has a boathouse, too." Violet told him, and she watched as life came back into his face. He now knew where his doctor was, and Sherlock was pulling himself from the depths of his pain.

"John is there." Sherlock made as if to get up, but he grabbed at his side, and fell back panting to the cushions.

"And we so can't get him out of there on our own, sexy. You're not your usual super ninja-detective self, and the only weapon I know how to use is my laptop. And a potato gun, but that's not really relevant."

"Whoever we get to help us has to be trusted not to kill Mary. I know we can trust her. I know we can." Sherlock said, and wiped at his face. "Trouble is, we need someone, and everyone I know is currently damaged by losing a loved one to the younger Moriarty."

Sherlock bit his lip, and Violet moved to sit at his feet. She put her laptop down, and rested her cheek on his knee. She sighed, and just offered him this small measure of comfort that she could give him. Sherlock wasn't one to snuggle, and this was as close to it as she knew he would let her get. So it was with a great jolt of surprise that she felt his hand come to rest on her hair, his fingers drifting through the black shoulder length strands. Violet held back any words, and let him find comfort however he needed.

She felt her cell begin to vibrate again, and with one hand pulled it out, and held it over her head to her favorite sociopath. Sherlock didn't stop petting her hair, just took the cell with his other hand. She felt him drop it on his other knee, and she could feel it vibrate through them as the call went unanswered.

* * *

><p>Sherlock stared at Violet's mobile, the caller ID clearly showing Mycroft's name. His brother had found out who he was with, if not where he was. And Violet was right, eventually he would find them, if they didn't move on.<p>

Sherlock was trapped. He felt a surge of satisfaction, of mad joy, and it battled with frustration. If he was whole and healthy, he would already be on his way to Blackwood Manor. Or whatever it was called now. He would get in, rescue John, and if he could get away with it, kill Moriarty and take Mary with him. If wishes came true, Moriarty would join her brother, and Sherlock would have his doctor back. But wishes were never granted. There was no higher benevolent power listening to prayers, just the universe spinning, and nothing could stop it from moving on.

Sherlock watched as Violet's mobile went quiet, the screen showing two missed calls. He didn't even care that his fingers were still running through her soft hair. She was warm against him, and Sherlock felt a pang in his heart as he realized just how much John Watson had changed him. There had been a time he would have pushed her away, or held himself back until she caught on to how uncomfortable he was. But now, all he wanted was to keep touching her soft black hair, and accept the heat from her. The comfort she offered so easily.

Violet was like him in many ways. Neither of them cared much for laws, the expectations of society. They did as they pleased, and be damned the consequences. But neither of them strayed to depravity. It was much like Sherlock had once told Jim Moriarty. He may be on the side of the angels, but he wasn't one of them. And Violet wasn't either. She had no trouble doing what was needed, despite her running commentary on everything.

"I don't know what to do. This would be made easier if I could talk to Mary….." Sherlock said, and his voice trailed off as he stared at the raven-haired woman at his feet. "Violet?"

"Yeah?" She lifted her head, and looked at him, her chin on his knee.

"Can we talk to Mary?" He asked. "We know where she is."

Violet was confused for all of a second, before her face cleared and she caught on. "Oh my God, yes we can!"

She sat up, and snatched at her laptop on the floor. Opening it, Sherlock watched as she accessed the mobile networks, for London and the surrounding areas. Large maps sprung up, and Sherlock could see the locations for all the towers that serviced the city. On the side, a long list of mobile ID numbers scrolled past, lit up in green and zipping by so quickly Sherlock couldn't differentiate them. Violet plugged in the address of the estate where John was, and located the tower that served it.

"These are the cellphones in the area of Copper Beeches. Or mobiles. Whatever. There's thousands. But I can narrow it down." Violet zoomed them in, and Sherlock saw the little blinking dots of active mobiles in the area around the estate. She weeded out the ones that weren't within a hundred yards of the property, and hundreds of dots blinked off the screen. "These are the mobiles that are all on. If it's turned off, I can try and turn it on, depending on the model. But I've got a feeling that Death and Mary have virgins, mobiles that have clean ID's and they'd have no reason to have them off. In this day and age, everyone has a smartphone, and we all get our news that way. Not having one would be a handicap."

Sherlock said nothing, just waited as she zoomed in further, and she put up a satellite overlay of the property, with a small handful of blinking green dots within the house.

"Okay. There's five smartphones within the house. Three of them are individuals, different makes and models. Different years of manufacture. But two of them are identical. Same manufacturer, same serial batches. They were most likely purchased from the same wholesaler, by the same person."

"Death and Mary." Sherlock said, and Violet looked over her shoulder at him. "They are partners in this, and Death most likely gave her a mobile to use. Mary dumped hers at the park."

"Very likely. Trouble is, who is who? We could dial Death first, and then we're screwed. I don't think anyone has those numbers other than the two of them. And getting an unexplained call would be a signal to dump them."

"Can you see where in the house they are?" Sherlock asked, and Violet nodded.

"Yeah, give me a minute. I can find out their specific locations to within a few yards."

In less than thirty seconds, Violet had the two matching mobiles blinking alone on the screen. They were within yards of each other, in the same room.

"Well, shit. Looks like we wait, and then guess on who to call." Violet muttered, and slouched back against his knee.

"I never guess. We wait, and I'll tell you which one to call once they separate." Sherlock said, eyes fixed on the dots. "Change the caller ID on your mobile to my name."

"I hope you pick right, cuz if the psycho Moriarty answers, you're doing the talking."

* * *

><p>Death looked at her men, and each one met her eyes without fear. They weren't built for it, these select few.<p>

"You all understand what this means." Death asked them. Making sure to hold their gaze, each man individually. One by one they nodded, and she was satisfied.

"Once the countdown has started, you will know that I am past protecting. All that will remain is that you fulfill your duties."

"We understand, my lady." Said her bodyguard. Death looked him in the eye, and smiled. He had been with her the longest, and his diligence was why he was chosen.

"It will be over soon. For all of us." Death nodded to her chosen, and they filed out of the ballroom.

* * *

><p>Mary knew she was in trouble. So much trouble she didn't see a way out. She wasn't being held captive or anything, Death had been clear that she could leave at any time. But she couldn't leave, not now. She couldn't leave, and let the father of her child be burned alive. And she was very good, but she couldn't break four hostages out of this place without help.<p>

Mary sat on top of one of the long tables in the ballroom, watching Death and her men on the far side of the room. She had forty mercenaries and para-military men under her command. Death had recruited them directly, by rescuing them from Sherlock and MI6 in the last two years. She had crisscrossed the entirety of the Continent and further abroad to destroy evidence that linked Moriarty in any way to Lord Moran and his wife. Along the way, she had carefully culled the best from the lot, and left the rest to be slain or arrested. Sherlock had indeed destroyed Moriarty's network, but he hadn't gotten them all. The favored few had escaped and were all in this room. And as a result of Death's actions, every man was devoutly loyal to her.

Even when she was at her most ruthless, Death inspired in her men absolute loyalty. Her slaying of the failed guard and the traitor at the bunker had been met with approval, not censure. Her men sat and stood in a large semi-circle around their mistress, lounging on large crates and boxes. Death was explaining last minute mission details, and assigning any changed roles. Mary knew from the men's posture and the way they moved that they held Death in high esteem. They would die for her, without hesitation. Some of them already had. And a great many of them would be dead in the next few hours.

Mary couldn't hear all of it, but that was fine. Death had filled her in on all of it hours ago, and Mary found herself shocked that she hadn't felt regret and dismay until now. Death was literally going to set fire to the world. Forty men and one woman. Who were about to set London on fire, and destroy any chance Mary might have at a future. One that didn't involve a bullet in the brainpan or four concrete walls.

Mary dragged in a deep breath, and slowly let it out. She had to calm herself. She hadn't been this bad off emotionally until she learned that she was… in trouble.

_Anger and love makes fools of us all. I should have stayed true to my training, and avoided both. But if I had, I wouldn't be… I can't even think the word! I'm pregnant. I'm pregnant with John's baby. I never thought to hope for this, never thought it through. I am a fool. Such carelessness is beneath me._

_But I was happy. So happy. I love him, I wanted him, I had him….. John. I saw my life laid out before me, full of happiness and potential. And all I had wanted when I escaped my old life was peace. A chance to be myself, and never have to pull a trigger again. Dreams, all of it. _

_I was so angry when he left. He didn't just dump me, he yanked away the happiness I had found. The chance to live fully. And I reacted as I would have years ago, and not as I should have reacted as Mary Morstan. Though none of this matters, as Magnussen knew who I was, and the second he couldn't use me, he sold me out. When John left me, the connection from me to him to the Holmes brothers broke. I would have had to run anyway. And I'd still be pregnant, and in trouble. But I would have had someone to help me…. John and Sherlock both would have helped me. I know they would have. John wouldn't let his anger at my lies keep him from helping me. And Sherlock would help because he would do anything for John._

_Pride, anger, spurned love, all of it played a part. But I made all of my own decisions, and I deserve what's coming. I deserve it, but my baby doesn't. My baby… Dear God, help me please…_

Mary felt her hands lace together over her belly, as if the thought of her baby being hurt made her body react on its own. So strong was the urge to run, to get as far away from danger as possible, that Mary nearly fund herself leaping from the table. She reined herself in, schooling her features back to a mask of perfect indifference. No one could know she was wavering. And she knew, with every cell in her body saying a stark truth in chorus. That she would be unable to look in the eyes of her future child and not feel wretched regret for leaving its father to die.

_Ruing my decisions is a waste of time. Regret wastes energy. All I can do now is keep things from getting worse. Hurry, Sherlock. I have a feeling the fires are about to begin. _

Mary watched as Death ended the briefing, and over two thirds of her men left the ballroom. They were heading back in to the city, and once Death sent them the signal, it would begin. There was maybe ten to twelve men left here at the compound. The rest were all leaving, back to their assigned positions. They were to guard the firebombs. In case Sherlock or Mycroft caught on to what was happening. London really was going to burn.

"Mary, there you are, dear." Death called to her. Mary hopped off the table, and met her halfway down its length. "I have something for you. My boys brought it back with them while out running my errands."

Death dropped a black box in her hands, and Mary stared at the unexpected gift.

"A present? And I didn't get you anything."

"They brought back my present as well, no worries dear. I'll be waiting on using mine until the final stage starts."

Mary opened the box, and what she saw left her dumbfounded. Passports, ID cards, birth certificates, alias workups, all neatly stacked up, and wrapped in a red ribbon. Death reached in the box as Mary just stared, and untied the ribbon from the documents. Her delicate fingers sorted through until she came to a dark blue passport, brightly embossed with the golden eagle of Mary's homeland. She pulled it out, and opened it to the information page.

There was a name next to her picture, a name she hadn't been called since she was seventeen. A seventeen year old girl cornered by shadowy government spooks who were hunting for damaged children to train.

"In case you wish to go home." Death said, as Mary blinked back sudden tears. "It may be too dangerous, perhaps for the rest of your life, but if the opportunity arises…." Her tears flowed over, and Mary had to let Death take the box from her as she lost her grip. Mary found herself weeping, her emotions out of her control.

Death's arms wrapped around her, and Mary cried on her shoulder. _Amelia…._ _I never thought to have that name again. They stripped it from me, took it from me years ago…_

"It isn't a perfect match to the one you were born with, as that would draw attention, but perhaps it is close enough." Death murmured in her ear. Her arms were tight, and Mary didn't care. This creature had pulled off a miracle, and Mary knew better than to spurn it. "All the separate aliases are real, exact, and clean. No one will find you with these. All you have to do is avoid facial recog."

"I can do that." Mary choked out, laughter mixing with her sobs. She lifted her head, and wiped away the tears. Her face was sore, but she didn't care. She had options now, more than she had five minutes ago. All she needed to do was save John, and she could go. Have a baby, have a life. Be free, and find peace again. "Thank you."

_I can't stay in London. Not after what I've done. I'm sorry John, maybe one day I can come back… Let you meet your child. You would be the best father in the world…_

"Enough tears, Mary. Soon this will be over. I promised you a new start, and the means to end the threat Magnussen posed. I have fulfilled my promise. And you fulfilled yours. And in a most spectacular fashion, too." Death rubbed her shoulders, and picked the box back up from the table. She put the top back on it, and handed it over to Mary. "If you wish to leave, you may. I'll have my men take you anywhere you want."

"Leave?" Mary gasped out, hands clutching the box to her chest. She was incredulous; Death really was willing to let her walk out of here. A part of her had been expecting Death to kill her, or at the very least, hold her until her own mission was over. "Now?"

"Well, if you choose to stay, I will not turn you away." Death said quietly, her dark eyes watching Mary's carefully. Her face was unguarded, and the madness was quiet, slumbering. She looked like a normal young woman, who was waiting on an important decision. As if the answer mattered.

A change was spreading across Death's features. Mary saw no trace of anger, no pain, the evil exorcised from the young woman before her. It was as if every other incarnation of her was the lie, and Mary was seeing the truth.

Mary felt a small part of her heart ache at the waste of potential she saw in front of her. The things Death would have been capable of if she had found a different path were impossible to fathom. Who she would have been was just a lost dream, now. It was a regret that disappeared as soon as she thought it. Death was as she should be. Forged by love, loss and grief.

"I'll stay. I have no place to be right now." Mary said, and watched as Death's shoulders loosened, and she relaxed. Mary couldn't leave yet. Not while John and his friends were still here. And this young woman had a hold on Mary's heart, despite the evil that simmered in her soul. Mary had a brief flash of herself standing on the edge of a great fire, her hand reaching out to a wraith being consumed in the depths…

"What's your real name, Death?" Mary whispered to the woman in front of her, who was so near Mary felt her body heat in the cool room. In their profession it was beyond impolite to ask, but Mary couldn't stop herself. "I know it's not Sybil."

"You didn't hear earlier? When you drew your weapon on John?" Death whispered just as quietly. "I told them, and everyone got very upset."

"I won't. Tell me." Mary asked, her eyes searching the younger woman's. There was an actual emotion in them, hidden. Something that wasn't rage or madness. Mary needed to know.

Death broke eye contact, her face flushing slightly with color. As if she didn't believe Mary would be able to handle it. She seemed to ponder the odds, and slowly raised her head. Her voice was low, but even. There was nothing in it of the evil she could conjure at will.

"Jaime Moriarty."

Mary sucked in air in surprise, as the younger woman flinched slightly, eyes clearly expecting a harsh reaction. _She's a Moriarty? Oh Dear God, no wonder…_

"You're his sister." Mary whispered, and she felt a river of awe, unease, and strangely, satisfaction race down her spine. The mental image of this marvelous creature of death and destruction suddenly crystalized, and every question of how she was capable of being so very talented was answered. Mary had once thought that Death had been born disconnected from her soul, to be as good as she was. It was more than that. She had been born to be this way. She wasn't born wrong; she was as nature intended.

Mary couldn't help herself. She lifted a hand, and brought it to the younger woman's jaw, and traced the fine bones, the elegant lines of her face.

"Are all of you so magnificent?" Mary asked. Her fingers stilled on the perfect cheekbone, skin unblemished and smooth under her fingertips.

_I'm standing next to perfection. She was born to be as she is. Whatever sent her down this path was destined to happen. Am I just as dark as she, that I appreciate her for what she is? The lives she's taken, the blood she's spilled, none of that bothers me. But I am not one to be bothered by blood. Nor death. Look at us both, the assassins with hearts, who bleed for the men who left us…. The heart that now beats beneath mine is all that keeps me from becoming her….._

"I am nothing compared to what he was." Jaime said, her face bemused as Mary pulled her fingers away slowly.

"I never met him. All that I know is from John." Mary said, and she fought not to flinch as she said his name. "Sorry, he did tell me a lot."

"Most likely all of it accurate." Jaime said, and she moved back. Reluctantly, slowly. "He was everything to me."

"So I've seen. Forgive me, I assumed that you and he were….." Mary let her voice trail off, as she caught the glitter of merriment in the dark eyes of this young Moriarty.

"On purpose, trust me. Harder for people to track us as we grew up." Jaime said, and jumped up on the table, much as Mary had been sitting earlier. "Many times we would split up, go our own ways for several months, but we would work our way back to each other. James had his distractions, I had my missions."

Mary raised her brows in surprise. This version of Death was charming, accessible, and seemingly sane. And it made her curious, and cautious. _No, not Death. Jaime._

_Can she see reason? Can she be turned aside? She cannot be saved, but can she be stopped?_

"Tell me about him." Mary asked, resting her hip on the table next to Jaime's legs. "The world saw him as a monster."

"And so he was." Jaime looked down at her, and grinned at the look on Mary's face. "We are both of us monsters. Of course we are. What else would you get, with two small children being raised by one?"

"What?" Mary whispered. She had a feeling she knew. She didn't want to hear this, but she couldn't look away…..

"Our stepfather was an alcoholic, abusive, wife-beating, child molesting monster." Jaime told her, and Mary fought the urge to place a protective hand over her stomach. "We were left on our own after our mother died from too many beatings. He had a fondness for young girls, and we endured his abuse for five years. In this house. Alone."

"Dear God…" Mary felt sick. Jaime looked in her eyes, and Mary saw nothing she expected in there. There was no pain, no fear, and no shame.

"There is no God." Jaime said. "There are those who cause pain, and those who are hurt. We stopped being victims. We took what we learned by surviving Blackwood, and chose to live as we wished. So we became monsters, and we flourished. Different set of standards, of course. But monsters all the same."

"How did you get away? Though I have a feeling you didn't escape as much as stop him."

"I killed him." Said so calmly. Without fear of judgment. "James staged his death as a suicide after I killed him. I choked him with his own tie. We then took every asset we could, and raised ourselves from that point on."

"What? How old were you?" Mary was finding this hard to believe.

"I was nearly ten, James was twelve." Jaime laughed at the look on Mary's face. She had given up trying not to be shocked. "James had already killed a boy at his school, so it was easy."

"Carl Powers?" Mary breathed, remembering from John's blog, and the stories he'd tell her of Sherlock's cases.

"Yes. The little snot was harassing James. He stopped." Jaime grinned, and kicked her feet back and forth like a child on a swing.

"Oh." What else could she say?

Jaime jumped down from the table, and darted in quickly, kissing Mary on the lips before pulling away just as fast. Mary had barely registered the soft touch of her lips before she was gone.

"It's dinner time for our guests, Mary. And then I'll be waiting for Holmes to start the show. The end is almost here." Jaime slowly morphed back into Death before her eyes, the charming woman-child without guilt and shame fading back to the heartless maniacal monster bent on revenge. Mary found herself missing the young Moriarty, she was refreshingly real. True to who she was, without agenda. Unburdened by the deadly purpose to end her life for man who left her alone.

Death gave her a smile tight smile, and walked back down towards her remaining guards, presumably to send someone out for food. People had to eat while waiting to die.

"Wait." Mary called, still standing where Death had left her. She stopped and turned her head, one brow raised in question.

"Can I call you Jaime?" Mary couldn't believe she was asking. Anything to bring the real girl back. Even if she was insane in all her incarnations, Jaime was worth saving, more so than the mercurial Death.

Death was surprised, the first time Mary had ever seen her without complete control. Mary held her breath as the younger woman looked at her, as if trying to see her heart.

"Only you." Jaime Moriarty smiled at her companion. She paused, and Mary was finding herself holding her breath as the younger woman stared at her.

"The final stage will happen once Holmes figures out where we are. We will have short warning before he comes. I'll be moving the women to the boathouse after they start this way, so that they will not be in range. Dr Watson will stay with me. You will have to run at the same time, unless you chose to burn with us all here at the house."

Mary shuddered at the look in Jaime's eyes. Her willingness to die. The desire to die.

"You don't have to die, Jaime." Mary dared.

"But I want to, Mary." Jaime replied, her sweet voice clear. "He left me behind, and went to where I cannot follow. At least, not empty handed. I'll finish what he started."

* * *

><p>Mary carried the bags of food from the nearby deli down the hall to where Jaime was holding her prisoners. Two guards stood outside the room, and she nodded to them to open the door. The larger of the two unsnapped his firearm while the other unlocked the door. Mary was armed as well, though she knew John wouldn't try anything, not with the women as injured as they were.<p>

She walked in as the door opened, and Mary ignored the glares from the women sitting on the bed. John was back at the window, and the look on his face was enough to make her flinch. But she didn't, well aware of the guards in the hall. She turned to them and nodded for them to close the door.

"Dr Watson will behave. I'll be fine." The guards looked at her for a brief moment, and the other drew his weapon as well. She wasn't worried. The guards closed the door, and locked it, and Mary knew she would only have few minutes before they opened it to check on her.

Mary dropped the bags on the bed, and waved a hand at the women.

"Go ahead. It's safe. I already ate." Mary held back a smile at the grumbles she got, but since they knew they were only alive because of her, Mary knew they'd eat.

Molly was the first to move, and she snatched up the nearest bag. Molly opened it, and Mary grinned at the look on the younger woman's face. Best damn sandwiches in the city. Somehow Mary wasn't surprised that Jaime knew about it.

"Why are you here?" John asked quietly. Mary didn't look at him, her hands at her sides. She put her fingers on his gun, the one on her thigh. She had seen it on the table the evening before, when everyone was checking in their gear from the assaults on the clinic and Mycroft Holmes' house.

Jaime had seen her take it, but she had grinned when Mary said it only seemed right she got to use his weapon. Would serve him right if she shot him with it. Only a part of that had been a lie. Mary was still very mad and hurt by John Watson, but she had to put that aside. She was carrying his baby, and there must be some way to fix this colossal mess. Sherlock had to hurry. And he had to be subtle about it. If he could get here without Jaime knowing, they may yet save everyone's life. And London too.

"I'm here because the world is about to burn, and me along with it." Mary told him, finally looking him in the eyes. She ignored the women on the bed as they ate, well aware they were watching, and not caring.

"You helped her do all of this." John said, and he stepped towards her. He was angry, and Mary watched him throttle his anger back. "You deserve to burn."

"No argument from me, John. But my circumstances have changed." Mary refused to elaborate. She couldn't. He wouldn't believe her. He would see it as nothing but a trick, the means by which to further insure his compliance. "Just behave John, and you might get out of this alive. We all might."

"What the hell do you mean? Mycroft and Sherlock will eventually find us, and there's nothing to stop them from killing everyone here. You included."

"I know." Mary met his eyes, and she saw his confusion at her behavior. "I have to go. I'll be back soon."

John didn't say anything, but he didn't have to. She knew he didn't want to see her again. She stepped towards the door, preparing to knock. That's when she felt it. Her pocket was vibrating. It was the mobile that Jaime had given her.

_Why is it ringing? What is going on? If she needed me, she wouldn't call, she'd use the radio, have a guard get me._

Mary pulled it from her pocket, and she sucked in a sharp breath at the name on the caller ID.

Sherlock Holmes.

"Oh thank you God." Mary fumbled with the mobile, and turned to face John. He was affixed by the look of shock and nerves on her face, and she almost dropped the mobile trying to answer it.

"Hello?" Mary asked, voice breaking.

"Hello, Mary." His deep voice came clearly across the line, and Mary felt tears prick at her eyes. She brought a hand to her face, and tried to calm herself.

"What took you so long?" She asked, and moved away from the door. She grabbed John's arm, and dragged him away from the door too. He was so distracted by the look on her face that he didn't protest.

"Well, I was shot by an angry American assassin, and I had to escape my meddling brother. You know, busy as a bee."

"Oh shut it. Does this mean you're coming to the rescue?" John straightened up at those words, and made to speak. She slapped her hand over his mouth, and cast her eyes at the door. The women on the bed had stopped eating, arrested by the woman on the phone. John glared at her over her hand, but he relaxed. She dropped her hand away.

"That depends. I need to know what's going on." Sherlock said, his voice as calm and deep as always, but she could hear the distrust in his voice. She knew one way to clear up any residual distrust at this point, for everyone.

Mary choked back her reply as the knock came at the door. "Hold on." She whispered, and put the call on Hold. She tucked it in her pocket, and met John's eyes. "Say nothing."

Mary went to the door, and tapped lightly. It popped open almost immediately, and Mary looked in the eyes of the guard holding it.

"Dr Watson has requested some more medical supplies for treating the prisoners. I need one of you to go get a fresh kit. Make sure you remove the dangerous items. I'll stay here until you get back." Mary tugged the door shut, and held her breath. She heard murmuring, and she knew it had worked when the lock snapped on the door and a single set of footprints walked down the hall. The other guard moved so he was in full view of the door, which meant he had to move away to see it clearly.

Mary leapt away from the door, and plucked the mobile from her pocket. She took it off of Hold, and threw it on speaker.

"Sherlock, John's here, and you have to stay quiet. I bought us a few minutes." Mary said.

No matter how mad she may be, how heartbroken, scorned and ashamed she might feel, the look of joy and disbelief on John's face was something she'd never forget. It broke her heart all over again.

"John?" Sherlock's voice whispered out from the mobile's speakers.


	32. It's Not Fun Unless Something Burns

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**WARNING: Serious violence, mentions of child abuse, and bombings.**

**A/N: I changed some of the geography of London to accommodate the story. I know my locations are fictional and that I changed where some of these places are. **

**Read, enjoy, review. And I apologize in advance for the tears and abused feels.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirty Two<strong>

"_**It's Not Fun Unless Something Burns"**_

**Nineteen Years and Ten Months Ago….. Blackwood Manor**

Jaime stood sniffling over Blackwood's body, her fingers cramping and burning from the silk tie wrapped so tightly around them. She felt silly for crying, she really did. Jimmy never cried.

Jaime struggled to free her fingers, sobbing quietly as the limp body at her feet moved in response to her frantic tugs. She had pulled too hard at the end, and now she was stuck. It had been easier than she thought it was going to be. She had practiced and practiced, destroying teddy bear after teddy bear to get the move right. But she hadn't accounted on her fingers getting stuck.

_Run forward, grip tie with both hands, jump up and spin over shoulder, drop body to floor with my weight. Pull. Runforward, jumpup, griptiewithbothhands, spinovershoulder, …. Don't stop pulling…._

Jimmy's instructions ran through her head, over and over. Jimmy. She had to get her fingers free. So she could free Jimmy. Blackwood always locked him in his room when he came home from school, so Jimmy couldn't stop him. But Jimmy had stopped Blackwood. Jimmy taught Jaime how to do it. She saved herself this time. It was the first time she had fought back, and she won.

Jaime tore at the tie, and it came free, tearing her already raw skin as it unraveled from her fingers. She fell to her knees, hitting the still warm body with her hands. She shook, and pushed away. It was nothing now, just a bag of bone and blood, limp muscles. Jimmy had told her to come get him as soon as Blackwood was dead. She had to get the keys.

Jaime bit her lip, and snuck a small hand into the pocket closest to her. The pocket wasn't too tight, and she felt the cold steel keys with her fingertips. She steeled herself one last time, and snatched the house keys from the corpse's pocket. She pulled back so fast that she fell on her rear, and crab walked away from the dead monster.

Jaime shot to her feet, and ran for the door. Blackwood always locked the door when he was going to hurt her. She unlocked it, and peeked in the hallway. The night was dark, the stars brilliantly visible though the wide windows that lined the wall opposite the study. No one there. Jimmy had been very specific. No one could see her in the hall, and she must close the door and lock it behind her, so that no one would see the body before Jimmy did. The staff usually left around this time anyway, but he had warned her to be careful.

Jaime darted out quickly, and shut the door. She locked it with the keys in her tiny hands, and sprinted down the hall, running silently. She made no noise as she took the stairs two at a time, running past the second floor, all the way up to the bedrooms on the third level. She paused at the landing, peeking over the top. No one was in the hall. She ran the last few steps, and ran all out for Jimmy's room.

She nearly dropped the keys in her excitement and nerves, and she heard Jimmy jump off his bed and come to the door. She unlocked it, and stood in the pool of light from his room, shaking and breathing hard. She looked in her big brother's face, and she saw him run his eyes over her, taking in her injury-free state, the keys, and the giant grin on her face. An answering smile broke across his face, and her big brother reached out, and hauled her against his thin chest in a massive hug.

"I always said you were very brave." Jimmy whispered in her ear. She hugged him tighter in response, and she cried her last tears into his shirt. She didn't mind when he took the keys from her hand, she just held him. He held her back, his chin resting in her red-brown curls.

Jaime squeezed him hard one last time and pulled back. "I did it exactly like you told me too. He died in one minute, twenty seconds."

"Good job. I knew you could do it." Jimmy let go of her, and ran for his closet. "Watch in the hallway, Jaime. Make sure no one is coming."

Jaime turned around, and hid against the doorway, peeking down the hall in both direction. She could hear Jimmy grabbing the rope from his closet, and he slung it over his shoulder as he joined her at the door.

"It's clear, no one." Jaime whispered, and she jumped in surprise as Jimmy took off at a run down the hall and down the stairs. She tore after him, silent despite her speed.

Jimmy paused for a second on each landing, making sure the way was clear before he went down to the next level.

Jimmy checked that the long hall was empty, and he ran for the study door. She was right behind him, and she snuck through in his wake as he opened it, and shut it just as quickly. He threw the lock, and went straight to the body.

Jaime stayed by the door, in the exact spot he had pointed to. It was Jimmy's turn now. Jaime watched as Jimmy unraveled the thick brown rope, and his hands flying, tied the large noose at the end.

Jaime looked on in awe as her older brother staged Blackwood's death as a suicide. He was really very smart, and Jaime had a distant recollection of hearing her Mummy say that once upon a time.

She wasn't scared anymore. Blackwood was gone. Jimmy would always take care of her.

* * *

><p>"John?" Sherlock held Violet's mobile tighter to his ear, and sat up so sharply he began to cry silent tears at the pain. He didn't notice the pain or the tears. He heard the voice of the one he needed more than he needed air in his lungs, more than he needed food in his body. John. His John.<p>

"Sherlock?" John's voice was disbelieving, incredulous.

"John, are you alright?" Sherlock asked, and Violet spun around on the floor, a wide smile breaking across her lovely face. Sherlock didn't see, so focused was he on the sound of John's voice. John's voice swept through him, his nerves on fire, joy and love singing in every inch of his being.

"I'm fine, please tell me this means a security team is minutes away from blasting down the doors and getting us out of here."

"No, not really. I'm in hiding with my personal hacker, and we only just learned where you were. I figured it was safe to call this number, as I deduced it was Mary."

"How did you….. Never mind. Are you okay?" The worry in John's voice was clear, and Sherlock grinned. Always wanting to take care of him, his doctor.

"I'm fine." Sherlock said. He wasn't really, but this didn't count as a lie. He was still functional. Fine enough.

"You too are adorable, really. Sherlock, we have a serious problem." Mary's voice came through just as clear, and Sherlock tensed.

"Go ahead, Mary."

"Death has bombs placed throughout London. She has them spread all over. There's over ten for certain that I saw, maybe an even dozen. I don't know where. The only thing she told me was that they were in places important to James. Places where you two had confrontations, or he did something."

"Violet, bring up maps of London. Plot everywhere we have record of Moriarty being, and every place he and I had confrontations. I'll fill in the rest once you're done." Sherlock told the girl at his feet, and she snapped out of her happy daze, and attacked her laptop. She was as fast as he could wish, and Sherlock found himself thankful that he had decided to have that first dance with her all those years ago.

"Violet? The American girl Mycroft called?" John asked over the mobile.

"Yes, Violet is here, you two can meet later." Sherlock said, and tried to calm his racing heart. Violet waved one handed at the mobile in his hand, and Sherlock laughed. His John was alive. John was fine. "She says hi."

"Sherlock, shut up! I need to tell you the rest." Mary was impatient, and Sherlock could hear it making her voice crack in stress.

"Go on then."

"She knows somehow, some way, what Mycroft and his people are doing. Same with Lestrade. I'd say it was more traitors, but it is most likely spotters. She'll know within minutes once you send people this way. She's going to activate the bombs once she knows you're coming. That's not the scary part. The scary part is she's planning on burning London. The only way to save it will be to kill her, John, and yourself."

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><p>Jaime Moriarty stood in the ballroom, perusing the crates laid out around the room. They were all ready, every last one. She gently shut the lid of the large crate nestled up next to the empty cage, and sighed. She had trouble with patience, she truly did. Sherlock needed to hurry up. He really was taking his time figuring out where she was. <em>Did I make it too hard? Thought it would've been obvious from the way I destroyed what was left of the chemical plant.<em>

"My lady? It's ready for you." One of her men said, holding her present in his hands.

"Finally." Jaime said, and without hesitation, pulled off her shirt. She had on a bra, but it covered very little. She had no problem standing half naked in front of her guards, and walked over to the one holding her present.

"Do it quickly. Make sure not to hesitate, the sensors have to be exactly on target for this to work." Jaime ordered.

Her bodyguard went pale, and looked down at the two long, very slim spikes in his hands. He looked back at the lithe form of his mistress, and paled further. He looked back down at his hand. The spikes were very sharp, and had a tiny hook on the end near the tip, so they couldn't be pulled out. Similar to acupuncture needles, but were twice the diameter. Sturdier. They were over two inches long, and at the end, foot long black wires that ended in plugins, where they would attach to the rest of her present.

"My lady, I ….." He stammered, and Jaime rolled her eyes. She growled in frustration, and grabbed both needles from his shaking hand.

Jaime took a deep breath, fixed her eyes on a distant point, and let all the air out of her lungs. As her chest went down, and as the air left her fully, she plunged the needles deep in to her chest, directly over her heart. She did it at an angle, so the ends would lay flush with her body and not stick out. She didn't react at all to the pain. It was intense, and she felt the delicious tingle all the way down to her toes.

Jaime pulled her hand away slowly, ignoring the blood on her fingers, and dripping from the two impact sites. Her aim had been true. She had aimed between her ribs, and she hadn't missed. She could feel the barbed tips deep in her chest, just above her heart. She pulled in a deep breath, and felt the tugging sensation that meant the sensors were fully seated. She would not be able to rip them out by mistake.

"Give me the rest." She ordered, and her man shook himself out of his shock, and picked up a metal harness from the table next to them. It wasn't solid metal. It closely resembled the top half of a climbing harness, but made of stainless steel and titanium links, and carried a slim electronic device in a metal cage. Wires wove through the links, around the entire harness, no link spared. They all connected to the slim flat device in the metal bracket. The tiny computer with its display and touchpad was lightweight, and about the size of her palm, and damn near indestructible within the fine bars.

Jaime shrugged it over her shoulders, not minding the tightness or the weight. One strap of metal went over each shoulder, connected near her bra strap in the back, and wove around her front, under her breasts, high on her stomach. She connected the buckles, securely seating the wire connections. The transmitter and receiver concealed within the slim tablet-like device in the bracket beeped as it sensed the connections. It rested flat on her torso, just under her breasts. The whole ensemble was tight, and very fitting. It would be noticeable under a very tight shirt, but it would not hinder her in any way. She had full movement, and she had no trouble ignoring the pain from the spikes. She wouldn't be wearing it for long anyway.

She grabbed the wires running from the spikes in her chest, and wove them through the chain strap over her left shoulder, down her side, and plugged them into the computer. She heard the beep again, and looked to her man.

"The readout says all connections are at one hundred percent, my lady. It's activated."

"Good. Go, double check that all the party favors are ready." She ordered. She ran her fingers over the thin metal cage that protected the tablet, just enough room for her fingers to fit through to enter her codes to begin her show. She pondered what the failsafe should be. She knew better than to assume the device couldn't be accidentally activated. Many people had been slain by such foolish mistakes, and she had no intention of starting anything until she was ready.

_What should it be? It shouldn't be something easy for anyone to guess. If I get disabled without dying, Sherlock would have a chance to disarm it. So something no one would guess. Something that isn't known to be connected to me or James, but something I know well. Something I care about? What do I care about? James is gone, but that's far too obvious… Ah. I know._

_Perfect. Just the thing._

Jaime smiled as she typed in the failsafe, giggling gently as she did so. The device beeped happily again, and Death started to laugh. All she was waiting on now was Sherlock Holmes. And she knew he would come. It wouldn't be his brother, or the police. It would be him, because she had his heart. She had the one he loved beyond all others.

Jaime grabbed her shirt, and pulled it back over her head. It snagged on the metal harness, but she straightened it out easily. She could just see the sensors, and the blood on her chest near the low bust line of her shirt. The blood had stopped, and was smeared across her chest.

Jaime felt a vibration, and paused, a part of her thinking she accidentally activated the device. But the vibration wasn't coming from her chest, it was her pocket. Jaime's brow crinkled in confusion, and she pulled out her mobile, and looked at the screen. It was her usage alert, to be activated whenever Mary was using her mobile. She was speaking to someone.

"Oh Mary." She whispered, and felt for the first time in a long time a thread of pain that wasn't connected to her grief. "You should have left me when you had the chance."

Jaime lifted her head, and let the pain of betrayal be drowned out by her rage. No more mistakes. Human error would not be her downfall. It was time to begin. Sherlock would not be able to stop her now.

She ran to the nearest table, and grabbed two handguns from the assortment laid out. She ran from the room. She knew without a doubt what Mary Morstan was doing, and where she was.

* * *

><p>John was watching Mary is disbelief. She had swiftly changed yet again, from the cold-blooded assassin from earlier, to this woman who spilled secrets that left him cold. The relief in her voice as Sherlock called her was unmistakable. Whatever it was that made Mary change sides must be significant.<p>

"I'm not going to kill myself, or John. Her, yes." Sherlock said over the mobile John held in his hand, and John watched as Mary shook her head in frustration.

"Sherlock, you won't be able to stop her. She has an altered dead man's switch. Built into a harness. It's run by her heartbeat. As long as her heart beats, London burns. Once her heart stops, the London bombs stop going off. But once she dies, the manor we're in now is going up in flames."

"What?" John gasped out, incredulous. "She's insane!"

"Yes John, that's been obvious." Sherlock said, and John waited anxiously for his detective to speak up. "Well, can you two get out of there now? Mary, I am assuming you're armed, between the two of you, you should manage an escape. I can send some of my homeless network to meet you someplace nearby."

John felt a crazy sense of joy and frustration. Sherlock didn't know, of course he didn't know.

"Sherlock, it's not just the two of us. The girls are alive, we're here with them now." John said, and he didn't bother hiding his joy at being able to say those words. Molly, Anthea, and Sally had moved to the edge of the bed, and Molly was crying quietly in her hands.

"What?" John had never truly heard Sherlock shocked to such a degree, and John snaked out a hand and pulled Molly to her feet. He smiled at her, and motioned for her to speak.

"Sherlock? It's Molly. I'm okay." Molly sobbed, and she kept crying, happy to let Sherlock know that she wasn't dead. "I'm so sorry you thought we were dead. She tricked us."

There was nothing, but for the sound of an open line. John heard a shuffle, and suddenly there was the sound of another voice over the line.

"John? Hey sexy, it's Violet. You just shocked the shit outta my pal here. You've done the impossible, Sherlock Holmes is speechless."

"Violet, hello. He okay?" John asked. Nothing for a minute, and he heard a coughing sound come over the line.

"Yup, he's now gesturing at me to relinquish the phone. That didn't last long. Here ya go."

"John, can you get everyone out?" Sherlock demanded, sounding better than he had in days. Sherlock had life in his voice again.

"Um, Anthea and Donovan are hurt. Anthea really shouldn't be doing anything strenuous like escaping, and while Donovan is relatively intact, she's got a serious concussion. And we have one gun against a few dozen." John told his lover, frustrated.

"So an escape at this point isn't feasible. That means a rescue." Sherlock said. "But as soon as we make a move to where you are, Death will know."

"Jaime said that she would move the girls to the boathouse on the river, so she would keep her promise to me that she not kill them. She's expecting me to leave at the same time. John's going to be here with her, waiting on you."

"Jaime is her name then." Sherlock said. "I was right. She is his sister."

"Yes, she is." Mary confirmed, and John could almost see the smug satisfaction emanating from Sherlock over the open line.

"The only way we stop London from burning is to get there without her knowing. I can get Mycroft involved, have him pull in resources from outside the city. Use teams from other parts of the country."

John didn't have time to answer. Mary suddenly froze, her head whipping towards the door. John heard it a second later. The sound of someone running hard down the hall. Mary's face went white, and she went for the gun on her thigh.

"She's coming! Sherlock, it's too late!" Mary gasped out.

The door burst open, so hard that part of it broke off at the handle and went flying into the room. Death erupted in the room, so fast she was a blur of motion. Mary hadn't even cleared the holster with her gun before Death was spinning on one foot, the other lashing out in a lightning fast kick that caught Mary in the chest, knocking her off her feet and into the wall, the gun falling to the floor. John dropped the mobile and dived for the gun, managing to grab it.

Death dropped and continued her forward motion, rolling towards him as he fired at her. The bullet flew over her head, and hit the wall next to the door. She came up from the roll right into him, and pistol whipped him across the head as he fell backwards.

John collapsed to the floor, and Death's booted foot came smashing down on his hand, forcing him to release the gun. The pain from his head was blinding, and he felt blood running down the side of his face. He stayed conscious, and looked up to see Death holding a gun in his face, with another trained on Mary, where she lay gasping at the base of the wall. She had a booted foot planted firmly on his sternum, and she was pressing so hard he fought to breathe. The guard who had remained in the hall had come in while Death dealt with them, and had knocked the girls back on the bed, his weapon up, aiming at Donovan's head.

"Mary. You should have left." Death gasped out, and John felt the pain recede as dread came over him. The look on her face was terrifying. Every other expression of madness she had before this point was nothing compared to how she looked now. She didn't even resemble a human being anymore.

John struggled to pull in air, hands grabbing at her boot. He twisted towards her just enough to suck in air, and he saw the mobile on the floor next to Death's other boot. The line was still open. Sherlock was hearing all of this. Several more men came running in the room, guns out and up. Death didn't seem to notice, her gaze locked on the blonde assassin as she crouched at the base of the wall. Death wasn't pressing down as hard, and John sucked in air. Blood had run into his eyes, and he blinked it away.

"Gentlemen, restrain the good doctor." Death pulled back as her men swooped down, and pulled John to his feet. "Take Dr Watson downstairs to the ballroom. I'll be down shortly."

The last thing John saw before he was dragged from the room was Death standing over Mary, the gun still pointing at her head.

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><p>"She's coming! Sherlock, it's too late!" Mary gasped out.<p>

Sherlock heard the door burst open and he felt his heart stop at the sound of a gun firing.

Sherlock was helpless as he heard Death knock John down, and he was never more terrified in those seconds before he heard Death order her men to take John downstairs to the ballroom. The line remained open, and Sherlock struggled to stay quiet, so as not to draw attention to the phone on the other end. He needed to hear as much as he could. He flipped Violet's mobile on speaker, and listened intently. He held a hand up to Violet, motioning her to be quiet as Death's voice came over the line.

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><p>Jaime fought to maintain her control. The rage was so powerful, so seductive. She wanted nothing more than to pull the trigger. It was whispering to her, caressing her mind, her finger dying to pull the trigger. Kill Mary. Kill her as her breaking heart was demanding.<p>

Jaime stared down at the woman at her feet, who looked up at her without fear. Mary wasn't one to beg. She was calm, a hand braced on the wall behind her, the other up slightly in front of her, as if she had stopped herself from reaching out to the woman who was fighting not to kill her.

"Why didn't you leave? Why make this hurt?" Jaime choked out, and to her horror, felt a tear roll down her cheek. "You should have left me."

Death saw it on Mary's face. Saw her realize just how much her betrayal hurt. Mary's face went white, and there was a shadow of guilt in her eyes. Jaime saw it, and she swallowed against the cry she felt rising in her chest. Jaime fought back, battling emotions she hadn't felt in decades. They were thundering through her heart, striving to ruin her control. She refused to let herself care.

Jaime didn't care. She wouldn't let herself care. Jaime found herself crying, crying for the first time in decades. She hadn't cried since the day she killed Blackwood. She hadn't even cried when she learned that her brother had committed suicide. She hadn't cried when she couldn't steal his body back from MI6, she hadn't cried in the last two horribly lonely years without him. She hadn't cried one tear.

But the woman at her feet had found her heart, and on the same day she did, destroyed it utterly. Jaime had known her end was near, and so she gave in to the urge to be herself. To show the woman at her feet who she used to be. She had wanted Mary to see Jaime Moriarty, and not Death. She had wanted so badly for someone to know her before she died. And yet the very first day that Jaime Moriarty came back to life, from the depths of a shadowed past, she got her heart-broken. She shattered.

Mary said nothing, just locked her beautiful blue eyes on Jaime's. Jaime could see her so clearly, see her thoughts racing through her eyes.

"I'm pregnant, Jaime." Mary whispered. Jaime saw the truth in her eyes. Those three words gave her all the answers she needed.

She snapped. She dropped the gun to point at the floor, and staggered away from Mary. Her men moved in, and lifted the blonde woman to her feet, securing her hands behind her with zip ties. Jaime sobbed quietly, pressing the back of a hand still gripping a gun to her mouth. She shook, and she couldn't pull her eyes away from Mary. The expression on Mary's face only made it worse. Jaime saw in it the confusion, the guilt, the awareness that she had broken the other woman's heart, and that she hurt as well. Mary had been forced to choose. Between the young assassin so similar to herself, and the man who fathered her child. And she had chosen the father of her child, no matter his sins against her.

Jaime let the room fade away, and she felt heavy. Her eyes fluttered shut. The weight of the last two years came crashing down on her, and she struggled to breathe. There was a howling in her heart, like a cold winter wind roaring over a barren landscape. Empty broken remnants of her soul shuddered under the force of the winds, and she closed her eyes tight. The cold filled her, tearing at her, and she fought to remain standing under the strength of her pain, her grief.

There was a tiny spark of light, valiantly burning under the winds. Cold daggers of despair stabbed at it, trying to smother it. To force it out of existence. It was the flame that fed her rage, her desire for revenge. The desire to hurt Sherlock Holmes. To hurt the man who made her brother leave her.

James had been content to run the world through the greed and hatred of others. He played with people's lives, and took commissions for jobs that interested him. He had been a consulting criminal, and the quality of the world's evil deeds had risen when he discovered his vocation. She had followed him, content to be the weapon he depended on. She thrived on blood, on death, and she had never met a challenge she couldn't defeat. As she grew in skill, she had spent more time away on jobs, and after a particularly long absence, had come home to find James obsessed with a man named Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock had challenged her brother in a way she had never seen anyone do before. James came alive, the ennui that threatened to smother him on a daily basis banished in the face of his delight. Sherlock played the game, played it so well he defeated her brother. That had never happened before. Ever. James had risen to the challenge, and it was that drive to win at all costs that was ultimately his downfall.

James had chosen to die rather than lose to Sherlock Holmes. He had only spared her enough concern to tell her to hide as Sybil Moran, to stay safe. In case he lost. Which he had. He had lost to Sherlock Holmes, but it was his little sister who lost everything. She had lost her brother to his obsession. And Sherlock Holmes had defeated her brother by living, nullifying his death. It was if the greatness, the power, all of it was hollow and useless. Because Sherlock lived, James was rendered less than who he really was. Nothing but a madman. To be dismissed, and forgotten.

He was James Moriarty, the greatest criminal mastermind to ever live. She was his sister, his disciple, his blade. She wouldn't let anything stop her from fulfilling her brother's last job. To kill Sherlock Holmes, and to burn out his heart.

Jaime Moriarty opened her eyes, and dropped her hand. Mary stood before her, and Jaime handed her guns to one of her men. She lifted her shirt, and Mary's eyes widened as she saw the harness strapped to her torso.

"As I am fairly certain the first thing you did was tell Holmes where we are, I'm going to assume it's safe to start the show." Jaime cast a glance at the window, at the deepening shadows of the night, but the distant lights of London could be seen in the distance, along the river. "You should have left me Mary. It gave me some measure of satisfaction knowing that while I may have used you to further my own ends, I was able to avenge the hurt and pain inflicted on you. I found myself wanting to avenge you, for your sake. I wanted you to be happy. I have never wanted that for anyone other than James. I think you just broke my heart. I would have handled you leaving far better than I am handling your betrayal."

Jaime slid a finger through the metal cage, and activated the London bombs. Every ten minutes a bomb would detonate. Until London lay in ruins, the heart burnt out of the country. Or until her heart stopped. And when it did, this nightmare would be over. This fresh wound hurt too much.

"Jaime, no. Don't." Mary pleaded. "Sweetheart, you don't have to do this. James didn't love you enough to stay, he left you alone. Don't follow him."

Jaime nodded, and wiped the tears from her face.

"So he did. But I plan on asking him about that in person. And I intend to drag Sherlock Holmes and John Watson to Hell with me." Jaime Moriarty stood tall, and pulled her shirt back down. "The first of the bombs should being going off within the next ten minutes. It'll continue until I'm dead, or London is. We'll have an excellent view from the ballroom. It's dark enough now that we can see the fires from here."

Jaime turned to the women on the bed. Anthea and Donovan looked as if they wanted to kill her, and she didn't blame them one bit. She deserved to be killed. She was a monster. One so evil Mary had turned from her own desire for revenge, and betrayed her. Never mind that she wanted Sherlock to know where she was; she just hadn't expected that this was how he would discover her location. And she had no doubt that Sherlock Holmes was on the way. Let him do the honors. Molly shook, and Jaime looked at this woman. She was so scared, and Jaime felt a shiver of delight. She knew what she was going to do.

"I'm going to keep my promise, Mary. It seems only right. When we Moriarty's make a promise, we keep it. I promised them mercy. You shall join them. Together, you may all watch as John and Sherlock burn to death. You chose them over me, over yourself. Enjoy the pain, I know for a fact it lasts a lifetime."

"Take them to the boathouse. Secure them inside. They do not leave." Jaime ordered her men, and she left, not looking back.

* * *

><p>The line went dead, and Sherlock wasted no time in dialing his brother. Less than ten minutes. Not enough time to disarm, but enough time to warn.<p>

"Violet, send that list of locations to Mycroft and Lestrade. Hack through everything you have to, send it now. Bombs are about to go off." Sherlock ordered, and he listened anxiously for his brother to answer the phone.

"Violet Hunter, I do believe you have some…" Mycroft started to complain, but Sherlock cut him off.

"Mycroft! Shut it! Violet is sending you locations where there may be bombs about to explode. Less than ten minutes until the first one goes off. A bomb will go off every ten minutes until I stop Death. I should be at her location within the hour. _Don't argue, do your job!_"

"What…. We just got it. Go." Mycroft hung up the phone, and Sherlock was thankful his brother chose not to argue just this once.

"Violet, I need a boat. Get us to the river." Sherlock tossed her the mobile, and she caught it, summoning a cab as she packed up her gear. She pulled out two syringes, and Sherlock didn't even blink as she pulled off the caps. She handed them over to him, and kept packing.

"Both in the thigh, next to each other. One's adrenaline, the other is that cocktail I got from my Colombian contacts. It's a variant on what the military uses on severely injured black ops soldiers in the field. Keeps them going, but sacrifices higher functions. You take the adrenaline with it, you should feel fucking great, and it'll keep your head kinda clear, but you'll crash really hard in about forty five minutes. I've got another set if we need it."

She was ready, and Sherlock didn't hesitate. He stabbed himself in the leg with both needles, and pressed both plungers at once. She didn't even give him time to pull them out before she had a hold of his arms, and was dragging him to the door. Her bag was slung over her shoulder, and she held him up with one arm as she pulled up locations on the river nearest to them.

"Considering the hour and what we need, we're gonna to be committing our thousandth felony of the day here in a bit."

There was a cab coming down the street, and Violet flagged it down. Sherlock found himself thrown into the backseat, Violet slamming the door shut.

"Head towards the river, fastest route, I'll direct you where we're going once we get close." Violet told the cabbie. "And if you do it as fast as possible, there's a hundred pounds in it for you on the side."

The cabbie had a cross look on his face right up until Violet slapped the pound note against the glass divider. Sherlock found himself having to hold on as the cab flew away from the curb.

Sherlock didn't know what was happening to him, but he was alternating between wanting to vomit, giggle, and get up and run to the river himself. His heart was beating so hard he felt the arteries in his neck jumping, his pulse thrumming in his ears. The pain was evaporating, and his fingers and toes were tingling, as if he had a low current of electricity running through him. He took a deep breath, and when he felt no pain, sucked in more air. He coughed as a result, and he caught the shiny flash of blood on his sleeve as he pulled his arm away from his face.

_Okay, still have internal bleeding. Not a cure all. Feel fucking amazing, but still hurt. Got it._

Sherlock ignored Violet and the cabbie as she gave him directions she was reading off her mobile. His head was in a strange place. He was remarkably lucid, but he kept getting distracted by lights in windows as they passed, idle observations, deductions cramming themselves in his frontal lobe, all demanding attention. Sherlock let his head fall back on the seat, and closed his eyes. All that did was make him nauseous, and he quickly opened them.

"Violet?" he murmured. She cast him a quick look, and didn't say anything. She raised her free hand, and put her fingers to his neck. She held her hand there, and pulled it away after a minute.

"Give it a few minutes to work itself out, Sherlock. You'll be fine." Violet went back to directing the cabbie, but not before Sherlock caught the worried look in her eyes.

Sherlock locked his eyes on the back of the cabbie's head, and hoped his stomach and head would settle. He hated getting sick.

"Yes, here's fine. Stop! Here, take your money, and we were never here." Violet told the cabbie, and Sherlock found himself yanked from the cab. He stumbled several steps before he noticed he was able to walk, and his legs felt weird. Like he had ropes wrapped around his legs, and he had to be extra careful not to trip.

Sherlock let Violet drag him by his sleeve, and she pulled him down a dark alley, the only light from the torch app on her mobile. Sherlock caught hints of light above them, and he saw a brief flash of the Eye as Violet dragged him down the alley. She stopped just outside a gate in a tall chain link fence, and shielding the mobile in his jacket, she hacked into the security feeds of Jubilee Gardens.

"What are we doing?" Sherlock whispered, and fought back the urge to laugh. He thought he was being quiet, but he had sounded so loud. Her face was right next to his, and his words stirred her jet black hair. "Sorry, I thought I was whispering."

"Shhhh! I just turned off the cameras and killed the alarms. You have two minutes to pick that lock on the fence and help me steal one of the sightseeing boats." Violet pulled back from him, and pushed him at the gate.

Sherlock giggled, and grabbed at the lock, and smirked when he saw what kind it was. Sherlock had that lock opened and fallen to the ground in less than ten seconds and he pushed the gate wide. He skipped in, and a part of him was appalled at his behavior, but all he could do was laugh. Violet blazed past him, and Sherlock took off after her. She knew exactly where she was going, and took him down the side of the massive platform that held the Ferris wheel on the banks of the Thames. Violet didn't hesitate, she just leaned over the railing, and looked down.

"Got one! There's a ladder, go!" Violet tugged at him, and Sherlock brushed her off, certain he could climb down the ladder. Which he did, very enthusiastically. So much so he fell in a seat, and couldn't remember why he was there. He remembered once Violet jumped from the platform, landing so close, she almost ended up in his lap.

"Sherlock! I know you know how to hot wire a car, tell me you can do the same to a boat." Violet flipped her mobile at his face, and Sherlock glared at her in disbelief. Of course he can, he's Sherlock Holmes! And just to prove it, he pulled out his knife, opened the panel next to the steering column, and had the engine roaring to life. All in about twenty seconds. Violet cast off the moorings, and she took over, backing the boat out and way from the platform.

Sherlock thought he was paying attention, but he found himself distracted yet again by a bright orange glow flashing brightly between two large buildings next to the river. He stared at it, wondering why there were fireworks going off in the middle of the night next to the Tower of London.

"How long was I out?" Sherlock felt a jolt run through him. Those weren't fireworks. That was a storm of fire. Burning at the Tower. They had just been at Jubilee Gardens, and that was no quick trip, even by boat on the river.

"It's been thirty minutes since Death activated the bombs. That's the second bomb to go off. The third is about to go off any minute. I called Mycroft while you were having your little drug moment over there. He has people on it already. The first bomb went off in Westminster." Violet said quietly, her voice sad and angry all at once.

"Where in Westminster?" He knew, he just knew. Before she even spoke, Sherlock knew where the first bomb had gone off.

"Baker Street." Came her soft reply.

"How long until we get where we're going?" He asked, dread pulling at his insides.

"Too long."

* * *

><p>Lestrade swore as the bullet came too close for comfort, metal ringing over his head as it ricocheted off the fire escape. He ducked back even further, having seen enough. He was at the rear fire escape at the roof level of St Bart's Hospital, and Greg Lestrade knew without a shadow of a doubt that he had found one of the bombs.<p>

The information had come from Sherlock via a woman that went only by the initials of VH, and it had taken a call from Mycroft for Lestrade to know the information was legit. She had sent a map of London dotted with dozens of potential bomb sites, and the first two he had checked had been clear. He had emptied Scotland Yard out on to the city streets, and Mycroft had sent him operatives as backup. There were hundreds of people searching London. But they were too late. Lestrade could see the inferno that blazed from Baker Street, the flames casting their light against the shadows in the far distance. And he knew from the chatter on the radios that another bomb had gone off at the Tower.

"DI Lestrade to Dispatch. Confirm targets at St Bart's Hospital. Multiple suspects, confirm explosive device." Lestrade called softly into his radio.

"Dispatch copies, sir. Be advised, MI6 is warning of imminent explosion of next device in five minutes." Came the reply over the radio, and Lestrade swore. The Hospital was only about halfway evacuated, and there wasn't enough time to get them all out before the next bomb went off.

_Why are they guarding the bombs? If they are on a timer, why are they guarding them?_ Lestrade stayed under the ledge of the roof, but lifted up just enough to see if anyone was coming his way. He knew nothing about bombs, just what he caught from taking to the guys on the tactical response teams, and odd bits from movies. Hell, the closest he'd ever gotten to a bomb was talking to Sherlock and John about…. _They are guarding the bombs because they can be turned off! It has to be easy for them to be turned off, otherwise, they wouldn't be here waiting to die!_

Lestrade took a quick look, and ducked back down as another shot went over his head. There were two men he could see, possibly more. He'd say three, just to be safe.

"Dispatch to all teams: Imminent detonation in four minutes." The voice cracked out over the radio, and Greg knew he was out of time. If this bomb went off, dozens of people would die.

"Lestrade to Dimmock." Lestrade called softly over the radio. Dimmock should still be at the roof access stairwell, about five yards from the bomb on the roof. They had tried to get through at that point, but the return fire had been too heavy, and Lestrade had ordered them to stay back.

"Go ahead, sir." Dimmock answered him, voice low.

"I need a distraction. NOW." Lestrade gripped his gun, and stuffed his radio in his pocket. He nodded at the two MI6 operatives just below him on the landing. They looked back at him, faces tight and grim in the shifting shadows. They knew what he was going to do. And he knew they would be right behind him.

Whatever Dimmock did as a distraction worked. Lestrade waited for a heartbeat, and trusted that if he was going to die, it would at least be quick. Gunfire erupted on the rooftop, all pointed towards the stairwell off to the side. Lestrade stood and jumped on the roof, running forward towards the bomb, and the three men around it.

His first shot was lucky. He was nervous, pulse pumping violently in his arms and chest. The first suspect dropped, the bullet catching him in the face. The farthest guard turned from the stairs, and aimed for him. Lestrade kept running, full out. The guard aiming for him fired, and all he saw was the muzzle flash bright in his eyes. He was mere feet away, and he didn't stop. He refused to stop. Lestrade fired, and caught the guard shooting at him in the throat, and his gun fell as his hands reached up to stop the gushing torrent of blood.

There was a shot from behind him, and it screamed past his shoulder. The bullet hit the remaining guard, and he toppled lifelessly to the roof top. The operative just behind him had a clear shot, and he had taken it without hesitation as he leapt up from the fire escape.

Lestrade dived for the bomb, falling to his knees beside it. It was large, about three feet long, and a foot and a half in diameter. There was a timer on the top of it. From the descriptions Lestrade had gotten from John, it looked very much like the massive bomb in the train carriage under Westminster that Sherlock had disarmed. Lestrade began to pray in earnest, as the timer on the bomb was counting down. This was the next one to go off.

_Death was Moran's wife, Death has his left over explosives. Same makers? Same design? Where's the FUCKING OFF SWITCH?_

He ran his hands over the bomb's casing, and he shouted out an exultant 'Yes!' as he found it, low down on the other side of the bomb. Greg threw the switch just as the counter hit two minutes. They had killed three guards and turned off a massive bomb, saving untold lives in the process. Not a bad use of two minutes.

Lestrade stood, and hands shaking from adrenaline, pulled out his radio. His hands were shaking so much he almost dropped it.

"DI Lestrade to dispatch. Bomb at St Bart's disarmed. Suspect down. Bombs can be shut off. I repeat, the bombs have off switches! Kill the guards, turn off the bombs!"

He stumbled, and Lestrade wondered what was wrong with him. He had never felt this way after a shooting. Sure, the adrenaline high could make him shaky, and light-headed. But this was different. He felt like he couldn't find his feet, and his mouth was dry. There was a strange pulling sensation in his side, like his shirt was caught on something. He didn't notice that he dropped his radio, or that his gun clattered to the rooftop as well. The stairwell door was propped open, and light spilled across his chest as he stumbled. Lestrade put his hand to his chest, where that weird sensation was. He didn't feel anything, and he pulled away his hand.

He blinked. Why was there blood all over his hand? So much blood. He stared at his hand, and he couldn't feel the blood run from his lips, down his chin. Lestrade could feel nothing as his knees gave way, and he collapsed to the rooftop. The last thing he saw was blood pooling beside him.

* * *

><p>John fell to his knees in the ballroom, the barrel of a shotgun boring into the back of his neck. His hands were tied behind him, the zip ties digging deep. He blinked fast, trying to see past the blood running in a steady drip over his right eye, down his face. If he survived this, he was going to need stitches. Only two guards had come into the ballroom with him, and the look in their eyes had him thinking it was a very bad idea for him to be alone with them.<p>

The guards hadn't been gentle with him this time. John guessed it had something to do with how badly their mistress had taken Mary's betrayal. He had found himself thrown down the last few steps of the stairs, kicked, and jerked around by his bound hands so much he feared his shoulders might dislocate.

"I say we kill him, tell her he tried to escape." He heard one grumble behind him, and whoever was holding the shotgun pressed harder. John bent with it, teeth clenched in fear and anger. "I've never seen her that upset before."

"Can't do that, she'll know." Another voice said, and John could barely see a pair of feet clad in black combat boots come at him from the side. He couldn't avoid the kick as a foot slammed into his ribs. He coughed as pain radiated from his ribs, air in short supply. "But that doesn't mean we can't work him over while she's fighting with her girlfriend."

"Would you like that, little man? Heard you like boys, want to play with big men now? Real men?" A voice growled in his ear, and John refused to show fear as a hand grabbed at his waistband, jerking him back against the shotgun. A roughly shaven face was pressed along the back of his neck, and John had a sick rolling sensation in his gut as the man behind him bit him. "Little man like you must really like it when his freak of a detective fucks him."

"Fuck off." John gasped out. _Crap, wrong choice of words!_

"Good idea, pretty man." The man behind he laughed, and John was jerked to his feet. The shotgun was tossed to the other guard, and John kicked at the man holding him. He got the other man in the thigh, and John went to kick him again. A fist came from nowhere, and clipped him on the jaw. John gasped, and spit blood out to the floor. He was bodily picked up, and slammed on the top of the large table behind him. He couldn't move, and his hands were trapped under him, the zip ties cutting at the tender flesh of his wrists.

"Who's first?" The man with the shotgun laughed, and the guard holding the doctor down didn't even answer before his free hand went to John's belt buckle. John brought his legs up, and kicked as hard as he could, pushing his assailant off him briefly. The bigger man was too fast, and came back at him. John cried out as his hands were crushed by the other man's weight, the guard practically lying on top of him on the table. A sick feeling was washing over him, pulling at him, tearing at his resolve. They meant to rape him, rape him for hurting their crazy mistress's feelings.

John gasped at the pain in his hands, and struggled under the weight of his attacker. The guard was fully on top of him, and he felt a large hand working at his belt, fingers digging at his trousers. His belt opened, and John shouted as the guard's hand reached under his waistband, fingers pinching and grabbing.

_NO! I am no one's victim!_

John went limp. Totally. So limp he knew his unresisting form would draw notice. His attacker pulled back, lifting his face from where he was biting at John's neck. John slammed his forehead as hard as he could into his attacker's nose, the crunching noise loud in the room. His would-be rapist fell off him, hands clutching at the ruin of his nose, blood running through his fingers and down his face. His screams reverberated through the large room.

John rolled off the far side of the table, and quickly sat on the floor, pushing his bound hands under his backside, past his thighs, and over his feet. He had his hands in front of him now, and snapped them sharply against the soles of his shoes. One of the ties broke, and John was free. He leapt to his feet, and he grabbed a gun from the table in front of him. John clicked off the safety just as the guard with the shotgun fired.

* * *

><p>Jaime stood in the hall, ignoring the women her guards were escorting from the room. She leaned her head to the wall, arms braced to the wall over her head. She concentrated on regaining her equilibrium, and she refused to acknowledge Mary as the blonde assassin was walked out behind her.<p>

"Jaime….." Mary whispered, and Jaime flinched, turning her face away, hiding it against the cool plaster of the wall. "Sweetheart….."

"Take her to the boathouse. Make sure they can't leave. Establish a perimeter around the house. Holmes is to be allowed in to the main house. No one else is to be allowed in. If anyone leaves after he comes in, kill them." Jaime said, and she heard the quiet affirmative from her men as they dragged Mary and her hostages down the hall.

She stood in the silence of the hall, and felt her mobile vibrate once. She dropped an arm, and pulled it from her pocket. The first bomb just exploded. She hadn't put them in any particular order. She had simply let her men arrange them among the targets as they saw fit, and they would explode in sequence. The random element to it was she didn't even know which one would go off next. Only the guards actually with the bombs knew. She had chosen her most loyal, her most devoted, to remain behind with the bombs to insure they exploded. And they all knew, to the last man, that they would only survive the night if she died before all the bombs exploded. And they had still gone. Jaime had been left with the less able, the marginally devoted dregs of her people. But that was fine. The ones remaining were all aware of her plans, and those here knew they wouldn't die as long as they maintained a perimeter as she had asked.

Once Sherlock was here, she would have her people withdraw, and cover the exits to make sure no one escaped. In case Sherlock Holmes defeated her as he had defeated her brother.

Jaime put her mobile back in her pocket and walked down the hall. She was halfway down the stairs when she heard John Watson yell from the ballroom.

Jaime grabbed her radio, and called over the channel. "Is Holmes here?" She got no answer. She sprinted for the ballroom doors, convinced she was going to see Sherlock attempting to rescue his lover.

She burst through the doors, and took in the scene before her in one glance. They had tried to rape the doctor.

_NEVER AGAIN IN THIS HOUSE!_ Rage erupted from her core as she saw the state of Dr. Watson's clothes, the bite marks on his neck, and the moaning guard holding his broken nose as he huddled on the floor. She didn't even know how her knife got in her hand; it was spinning through the air in a streak of flashing silver as it traveled the length of the room.

The guard fired the shotgun at John just as her blade sank to the hilt in his temple. The new corpse jerked, and the shot went wide. She was running, not caring that John was aiming at her as she crossed the long room in seconds. Jaime screamed in fury as she jumped at the kneeling guard, her knee connecting solidly with the back of his head. He fell out full length on the floor, flat on his face, and she landed between him and the man she had killed with her knife. She grabbed the hilt, and with the harsh sound of metal grinding on bone, ripped the blade free from the dead man's skull.

"Never again! Never in this house! Never again!" She screamed, and screamed, the blade rising over the man sprawled on the floor. She brought it down, silver mixing with deep red as she stabbed and stabbed at the rapist on the floor. Tears ran from her eyes, scorching hot as they raced down her cheeks. They were as hot as the blood splashing on her arms. _"No one will ever be raped here again!"_

Jaime stabbed until she lost a grip on the blade. Until her arm was coated in hot red blood. She left the soaked blade in the ruined remains of the guard, and her arm fell to her side. She wavered, and collapsed to the floor. Her arms were shaking, and her mind was numb.

"Well, um, thanks?" John said, standing over her. She hardly registered the gun in his hands, and she didn't care that it was pointed at her heart. The spikes that hovered in her flesh over her rapidly beating heart were a reassuring reminder that all pain ends.

* * *

><p>Mary didn't fight the guards. She walked calmly between two of them as they brought up the rear. The three women were ahead of her, three guards forcing them along the long path down the lawn to the river. The boathouse was a couple hundred yards from the house, and hovered over the shore. It was large; befitting of the grand old house it belonged to. A single lamp glowed at the door, and the guard in front unlocked the building, tossing on the lights as he entered. Mary was ushered in behind the hostages, and she watched as they were walked down to the far end. There were three slips in the boathouse, two of them empty, and the third held a large boat, easily twenty-five feet long, and large enough to carry several people, and many large crates. She knew this was the boat that Jaime had used when she bombed Blackwood Chemical.<p>

Anthea, Donovan and Molly were all being tied up at the far rear of the building, over the water. Mary knew that if the main house exploded, they were in the most protected place, farthest from the blast. Which is why she wasn't surprised when her escorts tied her to a wooden support column near the door. Closest to the main house. If debris made it this far, it would most likely hit the front of the building. Hit her. Mary didn't fight them as they grabbed her arms, and pulled her against the column. Her wrists were tightly secured together, and they left her there, hugging the column. She had some slack, about six inches. Not enough to pull on the ties until they broke, not in the time she figured she had.

Mary said nothing, and she waited patiently as the men left. They were going to take up their positions around the perimeter, to make sure no one left the manor. The only way out of that building once you went in would be in a body bag.

Mary jerked in surprise as she heard the distant report of a shotgun. It had come from the house. John. Dear God, John was up there, and Sherlock wasn't here yet. Mary looked out all the windows she could see, and then up at the column.

"Ladies, tell Sherlock when he gets here that she's in the ballroom. I have to stop her." Mary called to the women at the far side of the room. Anthea looked her in the eye, and Donovan called to her, and Molly started tugging at her restraints. "I'd take you with me, but I'm afraid it's a one way trip back into that house."

Mary looked up the length of the column, and leaned back as far as she could. She planted her feet against the base of it, and using the restraints, began to climb up the column. It was hard going, the zip ties sharp as she applied pressure on them. She knew her wrists were bleeding, but she dragged her arms up, and stepped higher. She climbed one foot at a time, breathing hard at the strain. Her shoulders began to burn, and she felt nothing in her fingers. Mary was nearly ten feet from the floor when she felt the first tie begin to slip.

She pushed off the column hard, falling backwards, letting her feet go up as gravity dragged her down the column, her wrists and the zip ties rubbing along the wood like it was sandpaper. She felt the ties snap a split second before she hit the floor. The impact knocked all the air from her lungs, and she instinctively grabbed at her stomach. She curled up, and sucked in air. She let herself lay there for only a heartbeat, and she got up.

Mary looked back at the girls, and held a finger to her lips, asking for silence. She grabbed a hook from the wall, the old kind used by fisherman for centuries. The handle was short, and the blade still sharp and wicked after all these years. Mary moved in the shadows to the wall nearest, and peaked out over the sill of a window. There was a guard barely visible at the corner of the boathouse, nest to the door. The others had melted away into the shadows.

Mary opened the window, and slipped over the sill. She landed lightly on the ground, and crept along the side of the boathouse. She moved like a ghost, her long years of killing from the shadows giving her the confidence to slip up behind the guard three times her size. The bladed hook sliced through the air, soundless as it sank deep in his throat. She pulled him down to the ground, fatal blood loss achieved before he even hit the dirt.

Mary yanked out the hook, and ignored the stench of hot blood in the cold night air. She went to the door, and opened it, dragging the corpse through the door and in the boathouse. She pulled his nine mil from his holster, and the silencer next to it. She looked down to the women. She didn't know what to make of their expressions, and she didn't want to take the time to figure it out. Standing, she threw the hook in their direction. Her aim was true, and it landed at Molly's feet.

"Do not follow me. Get out while you can." Mary told them, running from the boathouse and in to the deep shadows of the path, heading back towards the main house. She had some guards to kill, her baby's father to save, and a poor, mad girl to stop.

* * *

><p>Sherlock gripped the side of the boat and looked ahead at the river bank. This section of the river was only lighted sporadically, and he did his best to see the shoreline of Blackwood Manor.<p>

"GPS says it's coming up on our left. Any minute Sherlock." Violet told him, as she navigated the boat closer to the shore.

"How many bombs have gone off?" Sherlock asked, eyes locked on the dark shoreline.

"My timer says one should have gone off ten minutes ago, but I don't think it did. She might be dead already." Violet said, trying not to state the obvious. That if the London bombs had stopped, then that meant the manor was destroyed.

"We would see flames, fire. Something else happened to that bomb. Someone stopped it from going off. The next one will go off any moment, unless Mycroft and Lestrade's people have found a way to stop them."

"I hope they did." Violet strained to see, certain she had seen a light in the distance.

"I see it." Sherlock said, and it took everything he had not to jump from the boat and swim to shore. The drugs were still coursing through him, but the messed up head games side effects were wearing off. That meant the pain blockers would be going soon too. Then he'd come down from the high, and be useless.

"There's the boathouse, think it's safe to park this beast in there?" Violet asked.

"I'd say so, I'm fairly certain I see a ghost." Sherlock was grinning, despite the overwhelming urge to make Violet speed up.

"What? A ghost?" Violet saw the slim figure of Molly Hooper leaning out over the water, and she had a grin on her face to match the mad detective's.

Sherlock barely waited for Violet to steer the boat into an empty slip in the boathouse before he was leaping out. His feet hit the wood decking, and he sprinted towards the girl he thought dead and gone. Molly was crying and laughing, and her arms snaked around his neck as he hugged her tightly.

She was hysterical, tears mixing with her happy giggles, and Sherlock hugged her slim frame, burying his face in her long hair. She was real, she was alive, and she was breathing his name over and over. Sherlock spun her, and he felt a crack in his heart miraculously seal back up. Molly was alive. That loss of self he had felt when he believed her dead was gone. It was if he hand a hand back after it had been severed from his wrist.

"Molly." He whispered in her ear. She pulled back just enough to see his face, and she smiled that awkward little smile of hers at him. "Molly."

Sherlock leaned down, and pressed his lips to her cheek, wet from her tears and cold from the chill night air. He didn't mind one bit, she was real and alive and his again. She sighed, and he remembered to behave. He had a doctor to save. This sweet doctor gave him hope he would save the other.

Sherlock pulled back and looked at the other two women. Donovan smiled weakly at him from where she stood leaning against the wall, and Anthea still sat on the floor. The remains of zip ties clustered on the floor, and there was a bloody fisherman's hook in Anthea's good hand. He looked, but saw no fresh wounds.

Sherlock followed the blood droplets on the floor, and saw the dead body next to the door. There was another set of ties near the front, and Sherlock knew what had happened. Jaime was attempting to spare Mary. Looked like the American assassin was not happy with that.

"How long has she been gone?" Sherlock asked Molly.

"Not too long. Maybe ten minutes?" Molly told him. She bit her lip, and seemed ashamed for some reason. "We were going to follow her, but Donovan can hardly walk, and Anthea gets dizzy every time she stands up."

"No, stay here, you'll all get killed. They're expecting me, I'll be fine. Stay with Violet." Sherlock gestured to the raven haired woman standing in the boat, and she waved as he mentioned her.

"Violet, get the girls to safety. Call Mycroft, tell him you have the women, and head away from the manor."

"You want us to leave you?" Donovan blurted out.

"Yes." Sherlock pulled Molly to the edge of the slip, and he pushed until she stepped down into the boat. She clutched at him, her hands holding his until he had to pry her away. "I will not fail, but if the impossible happens, I prefer not to have you die with me."

Sherlock didn't give them a chance to argue, he grabbed Donovan, and helped her down into the boat. Anthea was the hardest, he felt a shimmer of pain as he bent down and helped her up. He held back the desire to cough, knowing they wouldn't leave if they saw him coughing up blood. He handed her over to Violet and Molly, and Sherlock backed away.

"Go, Violet." Sherlock ordered his hacker. She looked him in the eyes, and he thought he saw a tear. Violet never cried. Ever. "Go now."

Sherlock broke away, and walked to the front of the boathouse. They were expecting him. He knew he had no reason to fear walking out that door. Once he did, he either killed a madwoman, saved London, damning himself and the one he loved. Or she defeated him, and London burned as his corpse cooled.

Sherlock opened the door, hearing the boat back out of the slip, returning to the river. He stepped out in the night, taking the path up the hill to Blackwood Manor.


	33. Wraith in the Flames

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**WARNING: Violence. Heartbreak. Sadness. Explosions.**

**Read, enjoy, review.**

**Next chapter posts on Saturday.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirty Three<strong>

"_**Wraith in the Flames"**_

Jaime lay panting on her back, looking up at the hard eyes of Doctor John Watson. She had no fear in her heart. It was a wasteland of broken dreams. There was nothing left to lose, so she had nothing to fear. He held the gun pointed at her heart, and she smiled.

"End us all, John." She whispered. Her voice was hoarse from screaming, and she had no energy to get up. The warm blood from the freshly slain guards was running along the floor, soaking in her clothes as she lay between the two bodies. Every inch of her splattered in blood.

She slowly raised an arm, and watching his eyes for signs he was going to fire, tugged at the hem of her shirt. She lifted it just enough to show the harness underneath. John's eyes dragged from hers, and she giggled as she saw comprehension flood them. His eyes came back to hers, and she saw his fear, and the steel beneath it. She also saw the willingness to pull the trigger. John was willing to die to stop the bombs in London. She was impressed, even in her exhausted state. What a man, this army doctor. He had seen his friends die, his lover was injured, and he had been kidnapped and beaten, and nearly raped. And there was no sign in him anywhere of being broken. And he was willing now to pull the trigger, before anyone else died. What a man, indeed.

"Do it." She told him, her voice the only thread of sound in the large room. "Kill me, free me. I miss him, John."

John backed up a step, moving so he had a clean line on her heart. She appreciated it; that meant he was going to make it quick. The bombs would burn as much as explode. She really didn't fancy waiting for the flames to consume her. She was too impatient.

She was feeling something new. Something she hadn't felt before. The rage was gone, it was so quiet in her mind. She had no urge to fight, even though she could kill him now. She could see it in her mind, so easily. Spin and kick from the floor, knock the gun from his hands, grab the shotgun that was only a couple feet away. Blow him in half. Grab her knife, and gut him like a fish. So easy. Yet she didn't. There was no need. No desire to fight.

"My lady." Came a voice, unexpected. John jumped, and his eyes flickered to a radio on the nearby table. "He's here."

Jamie couldn't believe it. Fate was indeed willing to be kind. Sherlock Holmes was here at last.

"Will you answer that, or do you want to hand me the radio?" Jaime giggled, and she laughed harder as John comprehended the words from her guard. "Your lover is here, John. Pull the trigger, you may yet spare him before he walks through that door."

She kept on laughing, curling in on herself on the bloody floor. Not minding the blood or the dead bodies one bit, she laughed and laughed.

* * *

><p>Mary sprinted through the shadows, avoiding the path. She ran parallel to it up the hill, and she was screwing on the silencer to the nine mil as she went. The nearest guard should be at the midway point of the hill, where the path spread out in a small terraced garden before continuing down the hill to the boathouse. There were two large trees just off to the side, and if she were a sniper tasked with killing anyone who stepped out of the ballroom, it was exactly where she would be.<p>

She kept low, minimizing her silhouette in the weak starlight. The house was ablaze with lights, lit up from within like a miniature sun. She kept her eyes down, avoiding ruining her night vision. She paused just below the trees, and looked for the broken shadows that indicated a human body.

She saw it, halfway up the largest tree, in a clutch of large branches. He was foolish; the lights from the house clearly outlined him from this angle. He would be invisible from directly below, or from the house. But she could see him clearly. Mary knelt on the hill, and raised the pistol. She breathed, in and out, again, and pulled the trigger. There was the soft pop from her gun, and she was moving before the body even toppled from the tree. She ran to the body, stopping to grab a nine mil from his belt, and a knife. She may need to kill someone without using her gun. She tucked the blade into her jacket pocket, and expelled the clip from the spare gun. She didn't need the weapon, just the ammo. She tucked that into her waistband as she moved away from the corpse.

If any other snipers were in the area looking in this direction, she would be targeted by the muzzle flash. She went deeper in the shadows, where the hill dipped in the lawn, creating a dark, black shadow along the width of the yard. She tucked the gun into her waistband, and kept her head and body low as she half ran, half crawled across the vast green lawn. The other sniper for this side of the house should be positioned somewhere in the hedges on the far side of the lawn, directly where she was heading.

Mary ran, ignoring her sore body, her bloody wrists. She knew Sherlock would be here any minute. He loved John too much not to be. She understood him. She loved John too. And if she were to save the man she loved, she needed to save Sherlock. She had no doubt that if anyone could stop Jaime Moriarty, it would be him. She ignored the part of her heart that quaked at the thought of Jaime dying. But not even Sherlock Holmes could stop multiple snipers ordered to kill anyone who left the manor alive.

She ran through the cold shadows, her feet noiseless in the grass. The hedges that framed this side of the vast lawn were just ahead, and she dropped, flat to the earth. Mary pulled in air, keeping her body fueled, ready to move. She was waiting, listening for some sigh of where the sniper was. She had patience, long years of it. And she would not let her years of experience go to waste, not this night.

It was quiet. She could hear night birds of some kind calling in the far distance, and there was a boat out on the river. She heard the engine as it came nearer, and she risked turning her head to look down the hill. A large boat was approaching the boathouse, no running lights. There was enough ambient light in the night that she could see, even at this distance, the tall dark form of Sherlock. She fought down the urge to run back to the boathouse. She was too close now to her target not to be seen. She had to wait. They would not fire on him at this point. The goal was for him to go into the manor.

She hadn't been the only one to see him approach either. Mary heard it, and she held her breath in surprise at how close she actually was to the sniper.

"My lady, he's here." He called over the radio, alerting Jaime to the fact that Sherlock was on site.

Mary slowly turned her head, so low her chin was in the grass. There he was. Five feet up, sitting on the stone wall behind the tall hedges that grew next to it. Mary evened out her breathing, dragging in deep soundless breaths. She was in a horrible position to fire. Her gun was tucked into her waistband, and she would have to move more than she wanted in order to get it. He was alert now, watching the boathouse for signs of Holmes. If he looked down, he would see her. Her dark clothes were a help, but she had nothing to cover her yellow hair or pale skin. She stayed in the shadows, and hoped he was as unobservant as his comrade had been.

* * *

><p>John had no idea what to do. The madwoman was still giggling on the floor, uncaring he had a gun aimed at her heart. The harness she wore had stilled his finger on the trigger, and despite how badly his heart had raced when the guard said Sherlock was here, it terrified him. He couldn't take the shot. If the house went up, he would kill Sherlock too. And he had no idea how far away the boathouse was. He had no desire to hurt the women held there.<p>

John dropped the weapon from her heart, and backed away. He wiped at the blood on his face, and felt the gash she had given him earlier. It had stopped bleeding enough for him to ignore it for now.

John was at a loss. She had no issue killing; the blood surrounding her was evidence of that. She had reacted with extreme violence, to her own people, at their attempt to rape him. He may have stopped their attack, but she saved his life by killing her own guards. And the words she had screamed as she sliced away at his assailant sent a horrible chill through his heart.

'_Never again in this house.' She was raped here. She said this was her childhood home. That's fucking horrible. I don't care what she's done as an adult, no one, no one, deserves that. _

"Why save me if you intend for me to die?" John demanded. She blinked at him, and John was even more confused by the look on her face. It was if she didn't know why she had saved him, either.

"Excellent question, dear. Let me get back to you." She sighed, and dropped her head to the floor. Her hair was soaking up the blood on the floor, but she acted as if it was nothing.

"Shut it off." John said, knowing it was useless, but unable to help himself. All she did was look at him, her eyes wild. She was covered in blood, and he was deeply disturbed by the fact that she was content to lay between the leaking bodies of his assailants.

"No." She gasped out, and she sounded as tired as she looked. Her long red brown hair was tangled about her arms, wet with blood. She was still lovely, despite all that. Her mask was stripped away. There was nothing of the cold-blooded monster left in the woman in front of him. She was like a flame, flickering and fading in the cold breeze, struggling to stay lit. Her eyes shone in the light overhead, and John backed away further, fighting the urge to raise the gun. No matter how much he might want her dead, she had to live. No matter how much he might want her to live, she had to die.

John looked to the open doors of the ballroom. They were glass, and ran the length of the room. He could see the river down the hill, and London in the far distance. He couldn't see the boathouse from this angle, but he had a feeling it was too close. If the manor went up, the women were at risk of dying.

"Then I'll just leave, collect Sherlock and the girls, and shoot you from the lawn. You even have a sniper rifle for me to use, how considerate of you." John went back to the table, and grabbed the large rifle. He held it tightly under his arm, and went to one of the open doors.

"Go right ahead, see what happens, John." She giggled again, and he stopped at the threshold to the outside. He looked back at her, to see her pointing at him. He looked down, and his heart sank. There was a red dot from a laser sight hovering over his heart. "My snipers have the house covered. They are outside the kill radius. I ordered them to shoot anyone trying to leave the manor."

"Damn you to Hell and back!" John shouted, and he threw down the rifle. "I should have killed you at the bunker!"

"Yes, you should have. London wouldn't be burning." She pointed again, and John turned his head back towards the city. The lights of London were always bright, but there was an orange and red glow spread across the skyline. His heart sank. London was burning already. People were dying. She needed to die.

John lifted the pistol, and went back to her side. A part of him was screaming that this was wrong. He was seeing in her flashes of sanity, of empathy. As if those traits were trying to crawl free from beneath the madness. This was part murder, self-defense, and suicide all in one. His hand was steady though. His aim never suffered under stress. He never suffered under stress.

"Forgive me, Sherlock." John said, and he aimed for her heart. "I love you."

* * *

><p>Sherlock walked calmly up the path, his strides long and even. The house was open and waiting, every window ablaze with light. He had yet to see anyone, no guards and no sign of Mary. She had gone this way, he was sure. Though he doubted she took the path. He knew no one would fire on him. The goal was for him to meet Moriarty in the ballroom, and they would all die together.<p>

Sherlock refused to show weakness as he climbed the hill. The shots Violet had given him were wearing off, and quickly. He knew people were watching, and he had no desire to telegraph his physical condition.

John was up there. His doctor. His love. The man who meant more to him than anything in this world. He smiled briefly in the dark, realizing how closely his thoughts mirrored the words of the younger Moriarty. She had told Moran that Jim was the man she loved more than anything. He understood that feeling. Sherlock had ignored his own heart, his own feelings, for decades. It had taken John Watson to teach him to feel. How to love.

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to see John again. Hold him, hear his voice. So close.

Sherlock stopped. There was something in the air. The scent of blood. Someone had fired a gun recently. He had paused on a small garden terrace, halfway between the house and the river. He looked in the trees, and saw the crumpled form of a dead man. Mary. She had cleared the way.

_Why is there a sniper here? And the way he fell suggests he was facing the house. Why have a sniper set up on the house? Ah. Yes. Of course. To prevent us from leaving. To make us stay, and die. Clever girl._

Sherlock looked around him in the clear night, the air cold and the wind still. He looked, but saw no further signs of Mary, nor any more snipers. Though he would be surprised if he did. Mary was just that good. He knew she would head for the house once the other snipers were dead. And that also meant he had an advantage over Moriarty.

He had promised John that he wouldn't play her game. He didn't intend too. There was every chance that he could get to her another way. Not through violence and death, but through her one weakness. She had revealed it in that room as she confronted Mary and John, and he heard every word of it.

Sherlock walked on, and he knew that he had more than a fighting chance of getting everyone out of this alive.

* * *

><p>Violet took the boat out as far as she dared, without losing sight of the grand house on the hill. She couldn't see anything, but then she wasn't expecting to. All she wanted was for that building to not explode.<p>

"Hey, Molly? Come here, steer for me, I'm calling Mycroft." Violet asked the pathologist. "You don't have to do anything, just keep the wheel steady."

Molly got up from her seat, and took over. She smiled nervously at the hacker, unsure of exactly who she was. But Sherlock knew her, and that was enough for Molly. Did nothing to satiate her curiosity, though.

Violet pulled out her mobile, and dialed. She was expecting voicemail, as she was certain big brother Holmes was a busy man.

"Sherlock?" He answered almost immediately, and Violet gulped at the worry in Mycroft's voice.

"Um. Nope. Just your friendly neighborhood hacker. Sherlock is currently keeping a date with Death at Blackwood Manor." Violet said, and she could hear Mycroft grinding his teeth over the line.

"Violet, explain what is going on right now." Mycroft was enraged, and she stifled a smile at his tone.

"Death is Jaime Moriarty, younger sister of Jim Moriarty. She is at the old home of her stepfather, the Earl of Blackwood, formerly known as Blackwood Manor. It was renamed Copper Beeches five years ago. Mary Morstan is on our side, and helping Sherlock stop Moriarty. I've got three not so dead hostages here with me, and I'm thinking you need to send backup our way. Sherlock has to kill little Moriarty or the bombs won't stop exploding in London until they've all detonated." Violet steadied herself as the boat hit an eddy in the river, and Molly shrugged at her apologetically. "And we're on the river in a boat that may or may not have been acquired through legal means."

"What do you, mean three hostages?" Mycroft's voice broke. "Who's not dead?"

"Someone here wants to talk to you." Violet walked over to Anthea, and she held the phone out to the MI6 operative. The wounded woman looked at the phone like she was afraid to take it. Violet shook it at her, and Anthea reached out. She bit her lip, and put it to her ear.

"Hello, sir." Anthea whispered, and Violet felt her heartstrings tug at the tears running from the other woman's eyes. "I'm not dead."

Violet didn't hear what Mycroft said, but whatever it was, Anthea smiled brilliantly. Her eyes lit up behind her tears, and Violet felt a tug on her heartstrings again. She was so pretty. And Mycroft Holmes made her smile.

_Whoa, Vie. No thinking sexy thoughts about the injured chick. Down girl!_

"Understood, sir. I will be seeing you soon. Here's Ms. Hunter." Anthea smiled at Violet as she handed back the mobile. Donovan put a hand on Anthea's shoulder, and said nothing as the operative cried silently.

"I am on my way. Do you know how many bombs there are?" Mycroft asked, and she could hear him moving around.

"Mary said she saw ten, but thinks there may be twelve. That's a lot of bombs yet to go off." Violet replied. "And the manor is rigged to explode too."

"Why is her house set to explode…..? Oh Sherlock." Mycroft wasn't slow. Annoying, yes. Slow, no.

"Yeah. She wants Sherlock to kill her, and that'll make the house blow up." Violet told him, voice low. Her eyes were drawn to the hill, and the grand house shining atop it.

"I'm on my way." Mycroft said, and for a second she thought he had hung up. "Violet."

"Yeah?" Violet asked.

"Keep her safe." The line went dead.

* * *

><p>Mary watched in horror as the sniper leveled his rifle at the ballroom. She turned, and saw the distant shape of John at one of the glass doors. He paused on the threshold, and she prayed he wouldn't go any further.<p>

_Don't step out. Dear God, John! Don't step out! Stay in there!_

She looked back to the sniper, and he was holding. He was waiting to fire. He was absorbed down his scope, and Mary took her chance.

She flipped on her side, and pulled the nine mil from her waistband. Her gun was up and fired, and the sniper never saw the woman who took his life. The rifle fell on her side of the wall as the now faceless corpse went the other. Mary leapt up, and grabbed the rifle. She slung its strap over her shoulder, and followed the wall towards the house.

Mary scanned the shadows, and she caught the brief glimpse of a tall man walking up the path. Sherlock. She would gain the house at the same time as him.

* * *

><p>"I love you too, John. It's all okay, put down the gun, I'm here now."<p>

John felt his heart explode in his chest. That voice. Deep and powerful and it made his blood rush through his veins. John lowered the gun, and stepped away from the woman at his feet. He backed away from the temptation to kill her. She was now immune to harm; Sherlock was here. His detective was here.

John turned to the door, and saw Sherlock in the doorway. His black coat covered him in the chill night air, and his tall form appeared whole and intact. John saw in that first instant the flash of relief in Sherlock's eyes, and John knew Sherlock would see the same in him.

"Oh God, Sherlock." John didn't wait, he went to his detective.

Sherlock's arms caught him, strong and hard and real. Held him close to his chest, and John buried his face in the taller man's neck. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, under his long coat. John breathed his man in, and he didn't know he could love this much. Sherlock was here, and John knew that everything would be fine. If anyone could save the world, it would be the man who had done it before.

"John." Sherlock murmured in his ear, lips warm against his skin. John shivered, and lifted his head. Sherlock kissed him, his lips capturing John's. There was nothing better in the world. John sighed, and let Sherlock in. His detective's tongue touched his, and John swept his back, kissing his man as deeply as he could. He didn't care they had a witness. She could see whatever she wanted from her crazy spot on the floor. John was with Sherlock again, and nothing else mattered.

"Aww… How sweet." Jaime giggled. "You didn't kiss me like that, Sherlock."

Sherlock slowly lifted his head from John, and the doctor saw the change in Sherlock. His eyes frosted over, and his already very pale face turned to stone. Sherlock gripped John's hand, and they both looked at the woman on the floor.

"This isn't how I expected things to go at this point." She murmured, mostly to herself. "Oh well, it's not really fun unless something's on fire. And blood and death always puts a smile on my face. It'll all end the same anyway."

Jaime had sat up, her arms on her knees. The knife was back in her hand, blood dripping from the point. She smiled at them, and ripped off a piece of the dead man's shirt. John felt Sherlock tense, and he watched as his detective took in the dead men on the floor, Jaime's exhausted state, the blade she was cleaning, and then he looked at John. The rage he saw in Sherlock's eyes was making him nervous.

Sherlock was evaluating John. His belt was still undone, his shirt ripped from his waistband, the stinging bite marks on his neck. John mentally cursed himself. Sherlock saw exactly what had almost happened.

"I'm alright, love." John said to his detective, tugging on his hand. Anything to get Sherlock to stop staring at him like that. Sherlock looked like he was going to commit murder. When Sherlock got this mad, bad things happened. "I stopped them."

"He stopped them, I butchered them." Jaime said casually. "I don't handle rape well. But then, who does? I'd say the rapists, but they don't look so good."

Jaime kicked the corpse next to her, the body moving limply. She dissolved in giggles, and kept cleaning her blade. Sherlock's tension eased, and John sighed in relief. Having Sherlock enraged at this point would be too much to handle.

"Jaime Moriarty, is it not?" Sherlock said, his deep voice melodious and riveting. He pulled John closer to his side, and John went willingly.

"Yes, hello again, dear. What a relief not to have to go by that ridiculous name anymore. 'Death.' Atrocious. A name gifted to me by the unimaginative of the world. And may I say you look far worse than you did last time? What narcotics did you pump into your system to get out of bed?" Jaime grinned, and flipped the knife, reversing the grip once before stilling. "And you traveled all this way with internal bleeding. I bet that lung hasn't stopped leaking since Mary shot you."

John looked at Sherlock. He saw past the joy at seeing his lover, and noticed the signs of internal bleeding. Sherlock was severely pale. His eyes were sunken, and the skin around them looked bruised. Sherlock's grip was strong, but John could feel the occasional tremor run through his frame. His fingers were cold.

"Sherlock?" John said.

"I'll be fine, John. Focus." Sherlock didn't even look at him, just kept staring at the woman on the floor. "It's time to end this."

"Yes, I agree. Shall John pull the trigger, or would you like to borrow my knife? It's very sharp." She said. "There's no point in pretending you don't know about the harness, the heartbeat switch. We've got the rest of our lives to decide how I die. But London? London hasn't got any time."

Jaime stood slowly, the move predatory and graceful. She stepped over the bodies, her boots wet from the puddles of blood on the floor. She was wet all over, actually. There was no inch of her spared from the crimson mess.

"I'd rather not die, today. No thank you." Sherlock sighed, and smiled at their host. "Show me."

"Show you? Why not? John's already seen it." Jaime didn't hesitate.

She slipped the knife back into its sheath, and pulled her shirt off completely. Her very trim and well-muscled frame was enclosed in the metal harness, the chains wrapped in wires, and securely strapped to her torso. John flinched at the sight of the spikes driven into her chest, directly over her heart. She had stopped bleeding from the injuries, but the area was red and bruising. She was obviously unconcerned with infection. She wasn't planning on living that long.

She walked to Sherlock and John without fear. She came straight to them, and stood within arm's reach. John held his breath as she met Sherlock's eyes. John could smell the blood on her skin, she was so close.

"Do hurry, I don't think London has long." She whispered, as Sherlock dropped John's hand. The detective moved slowly around the younger Moriarty, his eyes intent. He looked at every inch of the harness, and John knew he was assessing for weaknesses.

"Why haven't you just taken your own life?" Sherlock asked. "You are so determined to die, why not just do it?"

"Excellent question." Jaime replied, and she smiled as Sherlock came around to her front, his eyes on the small device attached to the harness. "It isn't fun if I go alone."

Sherlock stepped into her personal space, and she let him. She could kill Sherlock right now if she wanted, but she let him as close as he chose to get. She did nothing.

"Ah. Alone." Sherlock said, his voice a deep whisper. "For that is exactly what you have been, these last few years. Alone."

"Yes." Her voice just as low. John had to strain to hear her. "Tell me Sherlock. For a man who was so steadfastly asexual and uninterested in other humans on an intimate level, how did you get so many people to love you?"

John moved closer, until Sherlock held out his hand, stilling him.

"That's it, isn't it? Your brother. His obsession with me. He showed to me, in his own twisted way, a level of attention, even affection, that he had only ever shown you before. Jealous?"

"Angry. He left me for you. To finish your game. He wanted you, Sherlock. Not me. I was forgotten." Jaime spit it out, and tears ran from her eyes. The tears mixed with the blood, and bloody drops fell from her face, to her chest. She pulled back, and turned her back on them. She walked away, and stopped, head down. "He was forgotten. He was the best in the world, Sherlock. The world was his. I was his."

John gripped the gun in his hand, as she shifted on her feet. The quiet lethargy from earlier was leaving, and he heard the deep timber of something powerful in her voice. The shotgun was on the floor, just a foot away from her. She might go for it if Sherlock refused to kill her.

"And in his determination to win, he chose the surest way to get it. By attacking your heart. By forcing your compliance. He thought to win by forcing you to die. And in doing so, he took his life to insure you did. I am merely attempting to do the same. Except I know better. You will only ever do such a thing again if it means saving lives. On such a large scale, that you'll have no choice but to die for real."

She turned back to them, and John saw the mobile in her hand. She looked at the screen, then tucked it back in her pocket. She was still crying, but it was impossible to hear her tears in her voice.

"Another bomb just went off, Sherlock." She didn't react. "I think it best we move this along. There's no way for me to know which bomb is where. For all I know, the Old Bailey just went up in flames. Or it could be the pool. Or even St Bart's."

"We die, here and now, and the world will bleed and suffer. I have burned the heart of England. Your loss will be another wound, for this country, your family, and your devoted friends. They will go on living, and the pain of the last week will tear at them forever. And my pain will be over."

John was shaking his head. She was insane. Completely gone. She was an ever changing mix of cold-blooded disciple, and heartbroken little sister. John felt like he was trapped in a room with a rapid animal, one that used to be a cherished family pet.

"I kill you. End your pain. We die with you." Sherlock murmured. "We die with you so you won't be alone."

She didn't reply. Just stared at Sherlock, and her tears continued to fall.

"But you weren't alone, Jaime. Someone got through to you. She touched your heart. Once that happened, you were no longer alone. I should know." Sherlock's voice was soothing, and calm. There was no trace of anger. Sherlock was trying to talk her down from the edge she seemed to be hovering on, as if she were about to jump. "You aren't alone anymore."

"Mary." Jaime whispered. John saw the pain on her face, and with a sinking feeling, saw the heartbreak. Jaime loved Mary. Jaime Moriarty loved Mary Morstan.

"Yes, Mary. You aren't alone, Jaime. She may have chosen to help John, but she didn't want you to die. You left her no choice, in the end. I heard her beg you to stop. She cares for you."

"She chose him over herself! He broke her heart! He left her." Jaime accused, her eyes flashing fire, looking at John before she returned her eyes to the detective. "He left her for you!"

John struggled not to show his surprise, his shock. His confusion. Why did she care that John had left Mary?

"Everyone leaves. The ones we love. They never stay. She…. She isn't important right now. She's gone, I sent her away." Jaime whispered, and John slowly put both hands on the gun grip. There was something in her eyes he didn't like. Her fingers were wrapping around the hilt of her knife.

_Dear God, is Sherlock getting through to her? Is she wavering? Is Sherlock really talking her down? My God, has he really learned that much?_

"Don't die, deactivate the bombs. Don't hurt Mary, Jaime. You die, she'll mourn you." Sherlock had out, palm up. As if he were beseeching her to listen, to stop the madness. "Turn it off, Jaime."

"No." She didn't sound so sure. "She doesn't care, she can't care about me. I am a monster, Sherlock."

"Mary isn't in the boathouse, Jaime. You die, this building goes up, and Mary might die too." Sherlock was calm, and there was a level of compassion in his voice John had never heard from the detective before. "You spared her earlier, because of what she told you. Don't kill her, Jaime."

_What did Mary tell her? Does Mary love her too? Then why help me? Why help Sherlock?_

"Yes, I did. I've never done that before." She whispered. She was confused, and she had an expression that clearly said she wasn't wholly aware of what was going on. She was lost. Jaime was gripping her knife, one hand tight around the handle. "I've never shown mercy."

"Why did you show mercy?" Sherlock asked, and he took a step closer. He was less than ten feet from her now. "Can you tell me why?"

"I couldn't kill her. Not after what she told me. I've never hesitated…..." Jaime whispered. Her eyes were wide, unblinking. Tears ran down her face, washing away the blood. She was holding the knife so tightly her knuckles were white. "And she asked me too. I wanted to make her happy, that's why I spared the hostages. I didn't need her, not after the club. I could have done this all without her. But I didn't want to….."

"Doesn't matter anymore. None of this matters. I thought to make you do it. Kill me. Kill us all. But I can see you won't. Why won't you? London is burning." Jaime looked out the nearest door, and she could see the fires in the far distance. She blinked, and John saw an emotion sweep across her face.

"You won't because you love John too much. You won't kill him. I am a fool, it seems. You love John too much to kill him. You're willing to let the world burn to spare him. But I don't love him. I don't love you."

"I loved James. I love Mary. Both left me, chose you over me. Everyone loves you, Sherlock. No more….." Her voice trailed off. John saw her intention too late. It was in her eyes. Her need to end the pain. "He's been waiting for me."

"If you won't do it, I will." Jaime didn't go for the shotgun. She went for her knife, and she was out of their reach.

Jaime raised the silver blade, backing away from them as she did. John brought up the gun, but Sherlock was in his line of fire. Sherlock darted forward, trying to stop her as she brought the knife to her throat. He was too far away to stop her.

He was too far away, but Mary wasn't.

Mary came out from the darkness of the open door behind Jaime, and struck. One arm went around Jaime's neck, the other snapping out, stopping the blade's decent to the younger woman's throat. The edge was at her throat, and Mary twisted her grip. The blade fell, and Mary kicked Jaime's feet out from under her, dropping them both to their knees.

John and Sherlock ran forward, but the look on Mary's face made them stop just out of reach. Mary sank her arm deep in Jaime's neck, bracing it with her now free arm. The chokehold was set, and not matter how she struggled, Jaime succumbed. She went limp, and Mary immediately released her. Mary supported the younger woman in her arms, and she felt for the pulse at her neck.

"She's alive. She'll be out for a few minutes." Mary said, glaring at Sherlock. Her expression was a mix of regret and relief. "If you know how to get this off, Sherlock, do it now."

"Excellent timing, Mary. I'm glad to see I was right." Sherlock said, voice low and distracted as he eyed the harness.

Sherlock crouched beside the women, John next to him. John reached out, and took Jaime's pulse at her wrist. It was strong. She wouldn't be out for long. Mary held Jaime, braced up on her chest. Her arms held the madwoman, cradling her. Much as Sherlock had held John after pulling him from the fire. As Mary had just pulled Jaime from the flames.

John looked at Mary, and the realization of how much he truly didn't know about this woman came over him again. She had disarmed and knocked out the most dangerous, violent person he had ever met. And she had done it with ease.

Sherlock was examining every inch of the harness, his fingers tracing the metal links, the wires.

"Tell me what you know, Mary."

"Break any of the connections, the bombs all explode. Here, and in London. The only way for the London bombs to stop is if she dies. It's programmed to recognize her heartbeat, so we can't fool it. Even if we could remove the spikes without it going off, which we can't."

"There's a touchpad. Did she enter a code?" Sherlock murmured.

"I didn't see her enter one, though it would make sense if there was a failsafe." Mary replied, her hands brushing hair out of the unconscious woman's face. "She was cautious with her explosives."

"Excellent. Now we just need to know what it is. And I doubt she'll tell us." Sherlock sat back on his heels, and he got that look on his face. His 'I have an idea and it's crazy but it always works' face.

"Sherlock, no rush, but another bomb should be going off here in a few minutes." John said, and he looked out the windows. The fires in London were visible from here. John stiffened, and thought he saw movement.

"Shit." John stood, and raised the gun. "There's someone out there."

There were two shadows moving, coming from the corner of the lawn, guns up and heading their way. And they weren't friendlies.

"Get down!" John shoved at Sherlock's shoulders, pushing him down over the fallen woman and Mary.

John strode towards the door, staying well back from the opening, behind the wall. He had a clear shot, and he took it. Satisfaction came roaring out of him as the first man dropped, a harsh scream of pain coming out from the dark. John ducked behind the wall, and looked out. The remaining guard was firing back, but his aim was atrocious. The shots kept hitting the wall, and John sank down to one knee, and came out from behind the wall just long enough to shoot. This shot was as clean as the first, and the second man dropped. John scanned the lawn, and saw no one else.

_Why hasn't that sniper fired at me?_

"There was a sniper out there, but I'm not dead." John got up and returned to the group huddled on the floor.

"Already dead, Mary killed them." Sherlock murmured, and John looked back and forth between Sherlock and Mary. He wasn't going to ask.

Sherlock had the small tablet in his hands, and he seemed to make up his mind about something. John watched, heart pounding, as his detective entered a code into the device.

**Mary**

There was an angry beep, and Sherlock growled in frustration. John looked down, and saw the panel read **Incorrect Code: Two Attempts Remaining.**

"Explain, Sherlock." John asked his lover. _How is Mary's name the failsafe?_

"No time to explain, this should be it. I know what the failsafe is. I know it." Sherlock grumbled.

"Um, try again? It's not deactivated. I know you can do it." John kept looking out the windows. He saw something, a light in the distance, over the river. John stepped closer to the doors, and smiled.

"Your brother is on his way. Reinforcements are incoming." John wanted to shout.

"Mary, you must be gone before he gets here." Sherlock said to the blonde assassin. John tossed his lover a look, not understanding.

"Sherlock, the bombs! Worry about me after!" Mary yelled at Sherlock.

"Fine! I'll do it again." Sherlock typed in a code. The angry beep came again, loud in the room.

**A.G.R.A**

"Sherlock! Are we going to explode if you get it wrong again?" John asked.

"Yes." Sherlock was calm. Eyes intent on the face of the slumbering madwoman. Sherlock raised his eyes to Mary. She was looking down at the unconscious woman in her arms, and he watched as she pressed a kiss to her brow. Mary cared. John didn't know what to make of the whole mess, and he was getting ready to grab Sherlock and Mary, pull them out of this hellish place, and shoot Moriarty from the lawn.

"Mary." Sherlock had that tone in his voice. The one he gets when he sees the truth, a clue long ignored. Something so obvious it takes forever to see it.

"What?!" Mary was at the end of her vaulted patience.

"What's your real name? Does she know it?" Sherlock asked. John held his breath. There's no way that was going to work. The other names hadn't worked. Mary nodded, and her eyes widened.

"Amelia." Mary whispered. Sherlock reached out, and without hesitation, punched in the name.

The beep this time was sweeter, happier. The device hummed, and went dark. The power turned off, and Sherlock reached for the harness. John was in disbelief, looking down as his lover unclasped a buckle.

Nothing happened. No explosions. No roaring wave of fire, no pain, no instant death by being blown apart. It was over.

"Oh thank God." John breathed, and fell to his knees next to Sherlock.

"Not quite, John. But I understand your confusion." Sherlock grinned at him, and John started to laugh. Only Sherlock bloody Holmes.

John sat on the floor, gun in hand, and laughed. He watched as a helicopter came into view over the river, hovering. Its spotlight pointed down to the water, lighting up a boat below. The helicopter dipped slightly, before lifting up towards the house. It flew overhead, and John knew it was looking for a place to land.

"Mycroft is here, Sherlock." John gasped out. He dropped his head to Sherlock's shoulder, and his detective brought a cold hand to his face. John grabbed it, warming it between his hands.

Mary still held Jaime, her arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders, cradling the unconscious woman tenderly. Mary sniffled, and buried her face in the rich brown hair.

"What of Jaime?" Mary whispered. She didn't look at them, couldn't look at them.

"Jail." John said. "She's Mycroft's mess now."

"He'll not show her the mercy she needs. I know she doesn't deserve any, but she needs compassion." Mary murmured.

"Mary, you must go." Sherlock stood, and faltered.

John got up, and Sherlock didn't complain as John moved under his shoulder, and took some of his weight.

"And you need to go to the hospital." John scolded the detective, who tossed him a cranky look. Sherlock rolled his eyes at his doctor, and John just grinned.

"Mary, go." Sherlock urged the blonde assassin.

Mary hugged the younger woman, still knocked out cold in her arms. She lifted the fair face, covered in dried blood, and kissed her lips. John wanted to look away, uncomfortable. He didn't know how to handle the woman in front of him. He had no idea why she changed sides, why she helped them. She obviously cared for Jaime Moriarty a great deal. So why did she turn from her?

"Mary? Why did you help me, help us?" John asked. He was so confused.

Mary looked up at him, and there was something in her eyes. Something that made John afraid to know the answer. Mary stood, and grabbed the younger woman by her wrists. Mary pulled, and gently dragged the assassin to the large metal cage next to the wall. She didn't answer, and she glared at John when he made to go help her. He stopped, and held Sherlock. Mary lowered Jaime down, and ran her fingers over her blood streaked forehead. Mary pulled off her tight black jacket, and draped it over the half-naked woman at her feet. She left the cage, and shut and locked the door behind her.

"I helped you because I'm pregnant." Mary turned to John as she said it, face calm. Waiting.

John felt like he had just gotten sucker punched. Her words ran through him like ice water, exploding in his gut and making him hold on to Sherlock for support. He couldn't think. Mary was pregnant. She was carrying his child. He had no words; his world was turned upside down. He saw her anew. He saw her wounds, the bruises, the tired planes of her pretty face. She was so strong, and immeasurably capable of taking care of herself, and yet John wanted nothing more than to keep her here. Keep her safe. She was pregnant. With his baby.

"Mary, you must leave." Sherlock told her again. "Mycroft will arrest you, he will have no choice."

"I know." Mary took one last look at the young woman in the cage, and walked over to them.

John wasn't expecting it. She came to them, and hugged them both. She burrowed her face between Sherlock's shoulder and John's face, and held tight. John reached up, and put his hand behind her head, holding her to them. She was shaking, bloody, hurt, and tired. She was pregnant. John didn't know what he was feeling, but it took everything he had to let her go as she pulled back.

Sherlock leaned down, and whispered something in her ear. John could hear the helicopter landing next to the river, and John knew it was almost too late for Mary to escape. Sherlock was right, she had to go. The government would show her no mercy, pregnant or not. John couldn't hear what Sherlock said to her, but she smiled at him. Her blue eyes were dry, and the shadows were gone. She pulled away from them, walked to the long table. She picked up a small black box, and grabbed a duffel bag from beneath the table, out of a crate. She walked out into the night without looking back. John watched her until she disappeared.

* * *

><p>Jaime's head hurt. Her eyes refused to work right. Her pulse was pounding in her skull, and her neck hurt. She dragged in a deep breath, and felt the spikes in her chest tear at her muscles. The pain nudged at her mind, and she opened her eyes. She coughed, and the pain from doing so drove the fog away. She curled up on her side on the cold wood floor, and coughed hard. There was fresh blood on her chest, and she peered downwards. The spikes were still in her, but the harness was gone. A black jacket was covering her like a blanket.<p>

She looked up, and saw Dr Watson and Holmes talking quietly to each other a few feet away. They glanced at her, but paid no further attention to her. As if she didn't matter anymore. She stay curled up on the floor, and watched. More fools, they. She wasn't helpless, not yet. She would not spend the rest of her life in a cage, to be put down like a dog after months of torture. Mycroft Holmes would be ruthless with her. She knew she could handle whatever he chose to do to her. It wasn't a matter of surviving; it was a matter of free will, of controlling her own life, her own end. A very long time ago she had made herself a promise to never be helpless to another man. Only James was worth trusting, following, despite his choice to leave her.

_Mary. I know it was Mary. She knocked me out. She is the only one who could get close enough to me. Where is she? _

Jaime looked around, eyes searching everywhere, but there was no sign of the blonde assassin. Mary was gone. She watched Dr Watson, who kept looking out the glass doors, down the hill. Jaime could hear the sound of a helicopter, and she figured out where Mary was. Or rather, why she wasn't still here. Mycroft Holmes was here. And he would not spare Mary Morstan, no matter her current condition.

Jaime cautiously lifted her head, being careful not to telegraph her movements. She was able to see the long table, and the black box was gone. Mary had taken her new aliases.

_Good. Go Mary. Run. I hope you're far enough away by now. I'm not mad._

Jaime lay her head back down, and rested. The large crates nestled against the side of the crate obstructed her view, so she couldn't see the elder Holmes as he entered the ballroom. She tugged at the black jacket that covered her torso, and caught a whiff of Mary's perfume from the fabric. Jaime brought it to her face, and breathed it in. She wrapped it closer around her, and buried her face in the jacket, her eyes just peaking above the collar.

She saw John and Sherlock turn to the doors, and could hear Mycroft call out to his brother. The Iceman may play it cool, but nothing got to him faster than his brother. So very obvious, the love he felt for his sibling. Let them distract each other. A security team swept in the room, and she heard John tell them that there were another six or so men left on site that were unaccounted. Good, let them leave. The team cleared the ballroom, heading into the other parts of the house.

_You are such fools. Now all three of you are here. All three shall pay. Feel the fire._

"She doesn't look so dangerous, now." Mycroft Holmes asked. She ignored the men standing outside the bars, looking down at her. She just watched them, giving no reaction to their words. She was cold, the blood soaking every part of her drying uncomfortably. She was glad for the brief comfort offered by Mary's jacket. "Is she secure in there?"

"Yes. She can't get out, I checked the cell, and it's secure." Sherlock replied, and he leaned on John. Her eyes were narrow slits, but she could see the exhaustion on Holmes' face. Whatever he had given himself was wearing off.

"She shall stay there then until the grounds are clear. It's time we got you out of here." Mycroft cocked a brow at the doctor, who nodded in agreement. They both held on to Sherlock, who had started to stumble on his feet. He was weakening and fast.

_Good. Get weaker Sherlock. So weak you can't run. I refuse to be anyone's prisoner._

She waited until they had turned their focus to the detective. None of them heard her as she came to her feet, carefully pulling the jacket on. Her hands paused as she zipped up the jacket, pressed to a pocket. She grinned.

Jaime backed up until her shoulders came in contact with the bars behind her. She sucked in a deep breath, and sprinted for the opposite side of the cage. Sherlock heard her, and the others held him up as he almost spilled on the floor. She screamed as she leapt, her booted feet flying between the bars of the cage, crashing into the side of the large crate flush against the cell. It was the same crate she was looking in before she attached the harness earlier in the day. She knew what was in there.

The side of the crate collapsed, and her boots made solid contact with the metal casing of the very large bomb inside. The men outside the cage could do nothing. Sherlock was attempting to get to her, but the other crates kept them away. John had his arms full of his detective, and Mycroft was yelling uselessly for some of his men. She pulled back a leg, and kicked again, screaming a roar of rage and pain. The casing snapped away from the timer, and she reached through the bars, into the void of the break, and grabbed a handful of wires. She screamed again, and pulled.

She came away with a fistful of wires, and the bomb gave off a beep. Loud enough to silence Mycroft. John and Sherlock were thunderstruck, and she laughed. She pointed to the timer. It was counting down. Less than two minutes.

"_Burn in hell, you bastards!" _She threw the Off Switch wires at the men frozen in shock. "Shut that one off, Sherlock Holmes!"

Jaime laughed, letting go of the remnants of her control. She laughed so hard she couldn't stop. Pain, loss, rage, love. Triumph. All swept at her mind, and Jaime Moriarty embraced them all.

_I lost, only to win. Goodbye, James._

_Goodbye, Mary._

* * *

><p>"Run!" John grabbed Sherlock around the waist, and pulled him to the door. The detective was in shock, staring at the crazy woman laughing her ass off in the cage. Where she was supposed to be helpless. She just managed to kill them all. John pushed Mycroft, and the MI6 man stumbled out of the ballroom. John dragged Sherlock, taking all his weight, and he pushed Mycroft until the man began to run on his own.<p>

John didn't hesitate. He took a better grip of Sherlock, and ran them down the large hill towards the river. He could see Mycroft on his radio just ahead of them, hopefully ordering his men out of the house. Two minutes. Most likely less than one minute now. John kept going until they hit the shore, and he didn't stop until he felt the cold tide waters of the river lapping at his feet.

John pulled Sherlock down. Just in time. The night sky was lit up as the manor exploded. The ballroom shattered from within, a massive shockwave sweeping out from the hilltop. The noise was beyond anything John had ever heard. It was the deafening roar of hellfire, and John could feel the shockwave smack them, even at this distance. John held Sherlock down, covering his detective with his own body. The sky was on fire. Everything was burning. The ground shook, and trembled. There was no sound beyond the roar of the explosion, the hissing of flames. Debris fell from the sky, and John covered Sherlock as best he could. He felt some small, and some not so small pieces of debris fall on his back, and around them. He didn't flinch, just kept Sherlock covered.

He stayed like that, and looked in the gorgeous eyes of his detective. Sherlock was in pain, and worry was etched across his face. Sherlock tried to get out from under John, seeing the debris falling on his doctor. John held fast, and covered Sherlock. John didn't care about the debris and flames falling around them. He didn't feel the cold water of the Thames washing over their feet. All he saw and felt was the man he sheltered in his arms. John lowered his head, and captured Sherlock's lips with his. He kissed his detective, and let the world burn around them.


	34. From Ashes

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**WARNING: SADNESS! Tears, aches, and feels. And some happy moments too.**

**Next chapter drops on Wedns./Thursday.**

**Read, enjoy, review!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirty Four<strong>

"_**From Ashes"**_

John sheltered Sherlock as the world was destroyed around them. He covered his lover as Blackwood Manor fell from the sky, in pieces clothed by white fire. John stubbornly refused to let Sherlock up, and he knew his detective was pissed, as the curses had flown once John stopped kissing him. It wasn't until the earth stilled, and the air went quiet, that John raised his head, and looked around. Mycroft was several feet away, huddled between some large rocks on the shoreline, surrounded by small fires. John and Sherlock were in the surf, their legs soaking wet. Smoke was caught up in the wind from the river, thankfully blowing away from them.

The boathouse was relatively intact, if you looked past the fact that the front of it was caved in, and burning merrily in the night. John was convinced the girls were still in there until Sherlock had forcibly taken him by his shoulders and pointed him out to the river. He saw a boat, and it was coming closer to land. He saw the girls on the boat, waving to them where they stood on the shore.

John waved back in relief, and helped Sherlock find a dry place to sit. John pulled his broken and weak detective to his chest, both of them huddling under Sherlock's coat. They hadn't spoken, just pressed their faces together, drawing strength and reassurance from the other's presence. John would randomly kiss Sherlock's face, and Sherlock bore up under the affection well, not at all perturbed by his big brother looking at them in askance.

John let Sherlock rest on his chest, his arms, supporting his detective as he fought to breathe normally. John put a gentle hand to his ribs, and felt the breaks. John adjusted his hold on Sherlock, and helped take the pressure off his chest. Sherlock had rested easier, letting John take care of him while they waited for the fires to subside. Burning debris surrounded them, making it hazardous to leave the rocky shoreline.

Mycroft ignored them, muttering something about 'lovebirds' and 'involved' under his breath. John ignored the MI6 man right back, only listening whenever Mycroft got updates from his people over the radio as they cleared the area. His men had made it out of the house in time. There was no sign of anyone else having survived the blast.

Jaime Moriarty was dead. There was no way she could have escaped the cell, and made it out of the manor. She was dead, and she had nearly taken them all with her.

The helicopter had taken off when Mycroft had alerted his people to the imminent explosion, and was circling overhead. Mycroft had picked himself up off the beach, dialed a number on his mobile, and within minutes, the entire nation descended on the burning hill.

* * *

><p>The fire was a scene of chaos. Emergency personnel, law enforcement officers, and assorted dozens of other agencies cluttered the hillside. The river was swarming with boats, lights illuminating the hill, and the burning carcass of Blackwood Manor. It was a house that had held evil, and now the fires consumed it utterly, destroying the legacy of Blackwood and the children he tormented. Even the stone walls were burning. John could see the flames from where he was sitting, through the trees of the manor's park.<p>

The fire was so intense that the crews couldn't get near enough to douse the flames. Whatever Moriarty had kept in the manor was refusing to go out. It was likely the remaining incendiaries were at fault for the stubbornness of the burn. Reports of people being able to see the fire as far away as London were flooding local police dispatches. Mycroft had ordered the crews back, declaring it unsafe to approach, and that containment be the priority. It was helpful that the cold autumn night was damp, and small storm system was predicted to hit within the next hour.

Mycroft had told him that the bombs in the city had stopped going off, and his people were finding them all over. The men who had been guarding them were gone, faded away in the shadows. Half of the bombs hadn't detonated, and each one had three to four guards with them. That meant a good number of Moriarty's guard was still out there. The third bomb hadn't detonated. Mycroft told him that Scotland Yard reported that DI Lestrade had stopped that one from going off. It had been on the roof of St Bart's. John had been proud to hear it, and he wondered where Greg was now. Hopefully someone had told him Donovan was alive. With any luck, he would still be at Bart's. The bomb had been cleared, and the hospital was busy accepting patients from all over the city.

John sat beside Sherlock in an ambulance, as his very hurt and cranky detective argued with the medic. The paramedic was demanding to know what drugs Sherlock had taken on his very risky rescue, and Sherlock's answer of 'I don't know' and 'It worked, does it matter?' just made the poor man even more flustered. John had no trouble seeing Sherlock take a drug he had no clue about. John sighed, and leaned back. This was going to be a great evening. The ambulance was one of many parked along the manor's long drive, and John was impatient for them to be getting to the hospital.

"Stop pestering me, man! Good God, I'm fine! And never mind the blood I keep coughing up, it's my blood, I'll cough it up if I choose!" Sherlock growled, and John finally had enough.

"Sherlock." John said to his detective. Sherlock looked at him, and John stared him down. Sherlock opened his mouth, but the expression on John's face made him snap it shut. He flopped back down on the stretcher, and took the oxygen mask from the paramedic without complaint. His eyes told another story. John smiled at his detective, knowing he'd get an earful from him at the first chance he got.

Sherlock was beyond stubborn. He had recovered some of his strength once he got carried to the ambulance, and John had no doubt that the quietly sweet and cooperative Sherlock from the riverside was a rarity. His grumpy detective would be fine, but his attitude most likely wouldn't improve until he was weeks into recovery.

"I'm going to go check on the others, stay here. I'll be riding with you to the hospital." John got a nod of confirmation from the medic. John had informed him that he was Sherlock's physician, as boyfriend status didn't mean much when it came to patient care. "I'll be right back. Behave."

Sherlock didn't answer, just crossed his arms carefully over his chest and slumped on the stretcher. John smiled, and hopped down from the back of the ambulance. He looked back a few times, just to make sure Sherlock wasn't following.

John had a bandage on his forehead, but the gash wasn't bleeding much anymore. He would see about stitches after the more grievously injured people were taken care of. He'd most likely stitch it himself. He had repaired the state of his clothing, and his shirt collar was high enough to hide the bite marks on his neck. John sucked in a deep, cleansing breath, and dispelled as best he could the sick feeling in his gut. He had stopped them. He was fine. He would be fine.

John walked to the next ambulance, and peeked around the corner of the open doors. Anthea was sitting on a stretcher, and John bit back a smile at seeing Mycroft sitting next to her. She was staring in her boss's face like he was the one who had come back from the dead, and not her. John heard her call Mycroft 'sir', and the look that came into his eyes as she did made John shift on his feet.

_Oh wow. Don't know how that's going to play out. He loves her, but I know he cares about Greg too. Oh man, that's gonna be messy._

John backed away, leaving them alone. He went down to the next ambulance, and looked in. Donovan and Molly sat inside, and Molly gasped as she saw him. He jumped up inside, and sat next to her on the bench seat. Donovan was on the stretcher, holding a soft towel and an icepack to the back of her head.

"Helps with the pain." Donovan grumbled, and she tried smiling at him, but she just dropped her eyes and looked miserable. The stress of the last few days was over, and she didn't know how to act around him. John looked at her, and knew it was as good a time as any.

"Sally." She looked up at him, and he caught her gaze. "It's all okay now. All of it."

She held her breath, and didn't say anything. She nodded once. It looked like she might start crying, which he wouldn't blame her for one bit.

"Have you gotten hold of Greg yet?" John asked her.

"I used Violet's phone, but it went straight to voicemail. I guess he's too busy in the city, what with the bombs and all." Sally sniffled, and wiped at her eyes.

"Hey now, no tears. Mycroft can find him, and have him meet you at the hospital. We're all going to the same place, he'll meet us there. Don't worry, he'll be beyond happy to see you." John told her, and he reached out, and squeezed her hand reassuringly.

"How's Sherlock?" Molly asked him, her eyes showing her worry.

"His lung and ribs are a mess, but he'll be okay now. I'm dragging him back to the hospital. We'll see you both there. I should go before he drives his medic insane." John hugged Molly, and waved to Sally as he hopped down. John walked out on the drive farther, peering around Anthea's ambulance to Sherlock's. His detective was still in there, and John stifled a laugh as the poor medic took more verbal abuse from the injured man. He walked down the drive, stopping briefly at the next ambulance.

Mycroft saw him this time, and John nodded to him. Mycroft looked remarkably spiffy for a man would had just run from a house as it exploded behind them. Only Mycroft.

"Has anyone told Lestrade that Donovan is alive?" John asked Mycroft. The MI6 man's brows rose, and John took that as a no. "Someone might want to warn him, so that seeing Sally doesn't give him a heart attack."

Mycroft grimaced, and pulled out his mobile.

"I'll see you at the hospital. I have to go save Sherlock's medic." John smiled at Anthea, ignoring the look on her face as she stared at Mycroft.

"John Watson is my doctor, no one else. Leave me be." Sherlock was trying to shout, but he couldn't suck in enough air to manage the volume he normally commanded.

John walked up to the ambulance that held the love of his life, and climbed back in. Sherlock promptly shut up, and went back to glaring at the medic.

"It's alright, I've got him. We need to be going soon, please." John told the medic, who didn't bother to hide his relief.

"The roads are clearing out now, we should be out of here in a few minutes." The medic went to the front of the ambulance, leaving John alone with Sherlock.

John quickly leaned over, pulled down the oxygen mask, and planted a soft kiss on his detective's lips before sitting back down. Sherlock blinked at him, and John smirked as he readjusted the mask on his face.

"You better not be leaving without me! That'd be some kinda gratitude!" A woman called from the shadows next to the ambulance. John sat up, as he recognized the voice. It was the American woman, and she sounded in person exactly as she did on the phone. John hadn't met her yet, as she had disappeared in the shadows after bringing the boat with the girls back to shore.

A tall, slender, and very fit raven-haired woman came up to the back door of the ambulance. John found himself staring at the most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen. Aside from Sherlock's, of course. Her eyes were an unbelievable shade of purple, and from this angle, he knew it wasn't from contacts. She was young, a few years younger than Sherlock, most likely mid to late twenties. She grinned at him, and tossed a small bag up on the bench seat next to him. She leaped in after it, and sat where the medic had been.

"Hey Sexy." Violet Hunter grinned at him, and John struggled to find his tongue. It was like he was looking at a female version of Sherlock. Her skin was tanned, and her eyes were a different shade. But the similarities were there. The resemblance was in the way she moved, and her dark hair. It was in the way she held herself, and how her eyes scanned him from head to toe, missing nothing.

"Oh, Sherlock, he's cute. Too bad I'm gay. And too bad you don't share. Now that Anthea chick? Wow. Totally my type. Is she dating Mycroft too? Cuz that'll be weird with him dating Lestrade. So when are we leaving? Aren't you still injured?" Violet kept talking, randomly addressing Sherlock while looking John up and down. She kindly ignored the marks on his neck, even though she saw them. Sherlock said nothing, just watched with a smirk as John tried to adjust to her presence.

"Um, hi." It was all John could say to her. _Mycroft was dating Lestrade? How long was I missing? _

"Don't mind me, Sexy. I'm just gonna nap while we drive to the hospital. I'm not missing the rest of this night for anything." She promptly propped her feet up next to Sherlock's hip on the stretcher, crossed her arms over her chest, and let her head fall back. She was gently snoring almost immediately.

John looked at Sherlock, and his jaw almost hit the floor when he saw Sherlock reach out, and rub a hand on the foot nearest to him. It looked like she might've grinned, but the tiny snores continued. Sherlock pulled his hand away, and snapped John out of his surprise by reaching for his doctor. John clasped his hand tightly. The doors shut, and John heard the vehicles up and down the drive start pulling out. Hopefully the trip back to the hospital wouldn't take too long.

* * *

><p>Detective Inspector Lestrade was dying. The bomb guard's bullet had torn through his side, just above his kidney, and out his back. He was bleeding out from massive internal injuries. It hadn't helped him that he was on the roof of a hospital when he got shot. The staff had been in the middle of evacuating, and by the time the process was called off, and appropriate staff cornered, he was almost past the point of saving. He had been in surgery now for nearly four hours, and the staff was warning that it could be hours left before he was done. If he made it that long.<p>

Mycroft Holmes stood outside the surgery doors, as close as he could get without actually being in the room as the surgeons operated on the DI. After John had asked him to notify Lestrade about Donovan being alive, he had tried several times to call him. He had started to grow concerned after the second call went unanswered. Lestrade always answered when he called. Always.

It wasn't until they got to the hospital, and Anthea was taken into surgery herself to repair her hand, that Mycroft had learned where Lestrade was. He had been standing in the doorway of his little brother's private suite, listening to John Watson override Sherlock's complaints, and make him submit to being examined. Mycroft had been impressed, as Sherlock had pouted, but allowed the doctors to look him over. Mycroft had been about to call Lestrade again, when he heard two police officers walking by, talking about how the bomb on the roof had been disarmed. They had said it was DI Lestrade, which Mycroft knew already, who had disarmed it. It was the next part of the conversation he heard that made his heart stop. Lestrade had been shot by one of the suspects.

He didn't even remember running for the nearest nurse, demanding to know where DI Lestrade was. He didn't remember running through the hospital, to the surgery suites. He didn't remember the security guards attempting to stop him. Mycroft's people had seen him running, and followed behind him as he searched for his own detective. The operatives had cleared the way for him, and Mycroft hadn't stopped until he was right outside the doors where Greg was. He could see the surgeons working over him through the glass panes on the doors.

Mycroft couldn't handle what he was feeling. He didn't know what he was feeling. His chest felt hollow. As if his heart wasn't inside him anymore. It was in that room. His hands were cold, and he couldn't swallow without feeling the urge to be sick. He didn't feel strong enough to stand, yet he couldn't make his feet move. He didn't remember how to sit down, even if he could force himself away from that door.

Mycroft had no notion of how long he might've been standing there, watching as strangers worked to save the life of Gregory Lestrade.

"Mycroft." He twitched at the familiar voice. Of course he wouldn't stay in his room. He never did as he was told.

Mycroft voiced no objection as his little brother came up next to him. Sherlock stood so close their shoulders touched. The pressure was warm, and steady. Mycroft closed his eyes, and dropped his head. He concentrated on breathing, on the cold hospital air moving through him, in and out. It took all he had not to start crying. He would not cry. Once he started, he wouldn't stop.

Mycroft didn't object when he felt Sherlock lift an arm, and placed a hand on his shoulder. The two brothers waited together, saying nothing.

* * *

><p>Violet Hunter snuck into Sherlock's hospital room, for the second time in forty-eight hours. This time Sherlock had a private suite, with a couchbed thing that reminded her of a futon under the window, and actual real chairs next to the bed. And the bed was bigger too. She stopped next to the slumbering Doctor Watson, and propped her hands on her hips at the sight of the empty bed. It was well past dawn, and John was fast asleep in one of the chairs beside the bed. Sherlock was obviously not.

"John." She said, not bothering to be quiet. No response. "Sherlock's gone, John."

That got a reaction, and a fast one. John jumped up, rubbing his face. He swore at the sight of the empty bed, and glared at her.

"Whoa, Sexy. I didn't do it this time." She pulled out her mobile, and hacked the hospital security feeds. "I was at what's left of Baker Street getting you guys some clothing."

She found Sherlock in less time it took for John to look in the suite's bathroom.

"Found him, he's with Mycroft outside one of the surgeries."

"What? Who's in surgery? Anthea?" John asked, and she tossed him a bag full of slightly smoky clothing, and toiletries she'd swiped from the flat's bathroom. "And what do you mean, what's left of Baker Street?"

"Pick a question, and change while you ask." She didn't give him time to blink, just sat on Sherlock's bed, kicked off her boots, and watched the mad detective and his big brother on her mobile.

"Baker Street." John asked and she grinned as John looked at her, then at his clothes. He squinted at her, and she didn't bother hiding her mirth at his discomfort. She pointed at the bathroom, and he went to it with a slightly sheepish look on his face. He left the door slightly open as he changed. She only peeked a few times. He blushed every time he caught her, which only made her do it some more. She smirked to herself that he let her look, as he didn't close the door.

"The first bomb to explode last night was at Baker Street, the flats across from your place. Due to Mycroft's surveillance teams posted at your place, keeping it secure, the guards couldn't get close enough to it to actually blow up your flat. So they snuck as close as they could. The building across from your flat is just a pile of rubble."

"Oh dear God, Mrs. Hudson?" John poked his head out around the door, and she snickered at the sight of his bare chest. _Oh Sherlock, if I went for men, I'd be all over your doctor. Sexy indeed._

"We were able to warn everyone when Death activated the bombs, and since Mycroft's team was already there, they got her out, and evacuated the buildings. If they hadn't been there, everyone there would be dead." Violet went back to cyber stalking the Holmes brothers. Neither had moved. "Mycroft's people escorted her out of town to her sister's place."

"Oh, and you'll have to replace all the windows." She heard him sigh from the bathroom.

"You know, that's the second time a Moriarty has blown up our flat." John said. He came out looking better, having washed up while he was in there. The gash at his hairline had a neat row of stitches in it, and she guessed he had done it himself while she was gone. She looked him over with approval, and caught a glimpse of the marks on his neck. She didn't pretend not to see them, and didn't do him the false courtesy of offering up some cheesy platitude about how it'll get better with time. It never got better, it just stopped sucking as often.

"Hey, let's hope there isn't a third one." She smiled at him, and patted the bed next to her. She waved the mobile at him, and she was pleased when he came over. He hesitated for only a moment, before jumping up next to her. She gave him her mobile, and his reaction at seeing the camera feed of the Holmes brothers tickled her ego.

"You really are good, aren't you?" John murmured. "Is Sherlock holding Mycroft?"

"Yup, which is why we aren't going to interrupt them. I've been waiting to see that for over ten years." Violet sighed. "Took them long enough."

"Who's in surgery?" John asked, and she tossed him a look.

"Promise you won't go tearing down there. You can walk, slowly, and with patience. If not, stay here."

"What? Oh fine. I promise." John had a suspicious look on his face. She took her mobile back, and met his eyes.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade." Violet told him. Not sparing him, just stated it plainly. "He was shot disarming the bomb on top of this hospital." She was expecting him to leap off the bed, which is why she hold a hold of his hand before he even finished processing her words. She pulled him back to the bed, and wrapped an arm over his shoulders.

"Don't, John. You running down there won't help your friend. Let Sherlock and Mycroft muddle through right now. We'll know immediately if Sherlock needs you. We can watch them both from here, and keep vigil for Lestrade too. Just let them be. Mycroft doesn't look like he can handle more people right now."

John was glaring at her, but that didn't bother her one bit. She could handle Sherlock Holmes; John Watson was easy. John tried to make her cave, he really did, but to no avail.

"You are exactly like him." John huffed out, and fell back on the bed. She sat next to him, cross legged on the very comfy bed.

"That's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me, Sexy." Violet gave him back the mobile, and she kept him company as they both watched over the Holmes brothers.

* * *

><p>John lay on Sherlock's bed, watching the Holmes brothers on Violet's mobile. She had leaned over the side of the bed, and pulled out a small duffel bag from underneath it. She must have stashed it there sometime in the night without him noticing. She had an attitude of casual indifference to what was considered polite, and people's personal space. He peeked at her several times, and she noticed him doing it, but she didn't say anything. She just pulled out her laptop, and started tapping away at it.<p>

John realized she was behaving like a more socialized version of Sherlock. She was younger, and he wondered if that played a part in her personality. He also had a sneaking suspicion she was a sociopath. Just like Sherlock.

"Yes, I'm nuts." She said out of the blue. Add mind reader to the list. Sherlock could do the same thing, know what you were thinking before you said it.

John jumped, and realized guiltily that he had been staring at her. She looked at him over the screen, and she grinned at his embarrassed expression.

"Sorry." John told the hacker, and he wondered if he should ask. "Are you two related? Cousins, or something?"

"Dunno. Never asked. I'm sure Sherlock did a DNA test at some point, but it never mattered all that much. Never thought it was important. It would explain why Mycroft tolerated me hanging out with Sherlock, though that could be my mad skills." She kept tapping at the keyboard, and John was fascinated. "People used to ask that all the time when I went to school here."

"Oh, did you to go to the same school? He's got a few years on you, how did you meet? But you're American, I mean that's kind of odd. Did your parents live here?"

"We went to the same university. I started during Sherlock's last year." Violet said, and she leaned back on the pillows behind her. She then picked up her feet, and John exhaled as she dropped her lower legs over his stomach. She really had no personal space issues. John just moved his arms, too distracted by this tiny piece of his detective's past to mind the girl as she used him like a body pillow. "I was fifteen, he was a year from graduating."

"Fifteen? At university already? Oh, wow. Good for you." John resisted the urge to interrogate her over Sherlock. His detective as a very young man was something John couldn't fathom. Was he worse, or better? What had he done to keep his talents under control? And just how close were Violet and his detective?

"Meh, no big deal. Hacked my way in, stuck around for the interesting stuff, and the company." She didn't see his shocked expression. "Didn't have any family, been on my own for two years by that point. I had already seen the entirety of the States, so I looked further. My mother was British, so I was curious. Picked a school here that sounded like fun, and got myself enrolled."

"What?" John was totally absorbed in what he was hearing. "Really?"

"Yup. Met Sherlock after I snuck into one of the older student's classes, just to see what it was like. He'd seen me, and then followed me back to my dorm room. I was about to beat him up for being creepy when he spouted out my entire life story in less than two minutes. I was tickled pink, after I figured out he wasn't going to turn me in to the authorities."

"He never does what you'd expect, does he?" John said, and he cast a glance at the mobile. Sherlock and Mycroft hadn't moved. John figured he give it another thirty minutes before he dragged Sherlock back to bed. John wondered if he would be able to kick Violet out of Sherlock's bed for the detective to get some rest. He wouldn't be any use to Mycroft if he made himself worse. John felt a stab of worry in his heart. Lestrade had been in surgery for a long time. Soon it would be clear they wouldn't be able to save him if it went any longer.

"Nope. And maybe if we can keep Sherlock from taking any more swan dives off of hospitals, or confronting crazy arch nemeses, we'll all have a lifetime of having him surprise us."

* * *

><p>Sherlock was exhausted. He had been awake now for over forty eight hours. Whatever rest he had gotten while in the hospital the first time had done little to help recharge his stores of energy.<p>

He was tired, but he would rather pass out here in the hall than leave his brother. For the last few hours Sherlock had stood here with Mycroft, neither of them speaking. Just waiting, and watching a man fight for his life. Sherlock couldn't tell how he was feeling. He was a strange mix of despair, joy, fear, anger, and frustration. Happiness, too. He was happy because of John, and Molly. He was angry because Moriarty had blown herself up, almost killing them along with her. Sherlock knew the only reason he and Mycroft were both alive was because John had gotten them out in time. He was feeling what he thought might be joy, because his brother was letting him be there for him. Sherlock hadn't attempted it since they were very young. Since the last time Mycroft shot down his attempt at brotherly love, and shut him out.

And he felt despair, because for all his vaulted abilities, his talents, skill, boundless knowledge, he was useless right now. There was nothing he could do to save the life bleeding away in that room. The only thing Sherlock could do was try and remember what brothers were supposed to do for one another. It was all guesswork. He didn't know if he was helping Mycroft, or making it worse. His brother hadn't shrugged him off, so he felt it must be okay to touch him.

Sherlock didn't know if he was supposed to be able to feel all of that at once. If normal people did. He had never thought about it before, and he struggled not to let his mind get too absorbed in himself. Even he had a feeling that analyzing his emotional response to his brother's emotional response to him might not be appropriate right now.

Sherlock was seeing a part of his brother he hadn't seen in decades. Mycroft had a heart under all of that ice, he truly did. He just never let anyone close enough to see it. He froze out the world. Mostly because to him, everyone else was a goldfish. Too stupid to interact with. Not worth the bother. But there was something about Greg Lestrade that thawed Mycroft Holmes. Thawed him enough that the prospect of Lestrade dying shattered the ice. And left a man.

* * *

><p>"Violet, I think they're done in there." John sat up, almost spilling the hacker on the floor. "Sorry. Got to go."<p>

"Leave my cell! And I'll stay here." Violet caught her mobile as he tossed it from the door. "Keep Sherlock's bed warm."

John was past hearing her as he ran down the hall. The elevator showed up just as he was deciding to take the stairs. He was thankful it was empty, as he didn't think anyone would understand him punching the buttons for the surgery floor. Over and over.

John shot out in to the hall, and ran towards the doors to the inner sections of the surgery suites. Mycroft's people were stationed outside, and they saw him coming, opening a door for him. He burst through, and he had to lean back on his heels to keep from running into the brothers.

Sherlock was holding Mycroft's shoulder, and John came up to his detective and his brother just as a surgeon left the room where they had been operating on Lestrade.

"Tell me." Mycroft ordered, not giving the surgeon time to even comprehend why they were in this particular hallway.

"Excuse me, who are you? Are you family? We can't have you back here, this is a restricted area." The surgeon made to walk past, and John had to grab Sherlock as Mycroft pulled away from his brother, and got in the surgeon's way.

"You will tell me what his prognosis is, or I will have you grabbed from your bed in the middle of the night, beaten bloody, and left naked in a cold dark room for the rest of your life. _Tell me how he is!" _Mycroft ground out behind clenched teeth, and the surgeon paled at what he saw in the taller man's expression.

"Doctor, we're family. Please. We've been waiting for news since last night." John told the surgeon, hoping to diffuse the situation. He had no trouble lying if it got Mycroft answers. The surgeon gulped, and looked back and forth between the tall man in the very expensive suit, and the other two men in the hall. He decided he didn't want to take his chances, as the curly haired fellow was looking just as deadly as the icy one.

"Severe internal bleeding and damage, massive blood loss. He took a large caliber round at almost point blank range. The bullet lacerated an artery just above his kidney, but we were able to repair most of the damage, and stop the bleed. I'm sorry to tell you that he flat lined while we were operating. We did manage to revive him, but I wouldn't hold out much hope at this point. He's lost too much blood, and the damage is major. I'm having him moved to Recovery, and we'll see if he stabilizes within the next day. No visitors until he stabilizes." The surgeon looked at them all one more time, and scurried down the hall.

"Wretched bedside manner." John heard Sherlock grumble. Mycroft was leaning against a wall, and he was so pale John feared he was going to pass out.

"Mycroft! Breathe. Just take in air, and let it out." John told the MI6 man. John figured Sherlock was steady enough for the moment, and went to the elder Holmes. John grabbed Mycroft's shoulders, and squeezed them hard. John didn't need Mycroft passing out in the cold hallway. "Snap out of it. They're going to wheel him out of there any minute. Snap out of it. You need to see him. He's alive right now, Mycroft. He's alive."

John stared Mycroft hard in the yes, willing the elder Holmes to stay upright. He saw a flash of awareness past the shock and horror deep in Mycroft's eyes. John gripped harder, and shook him once, gently. Mycroft breathed, and he blinked. John met his eyes until Mycroft nodded slightly. John backed away, ready to catch him if he was to suddenly topple over.

Just in time. There was the rattle of wheels on tiled floors, and the doors to the surgery bay opened. Greg was covered in white blankets, attached to a respirator and so many IV lines it was hard to see where each one went. The bed he was in was like a fortress, and he was surrounded by nurses and doctors as they escorted him out. It was his face that made John put a hand over his mouth to hold back a sob. He was so white. As white as the blankets covering him. His fox-grey hair was the only thing about him that wasn't pale as new snow.

"Mycroft, he's alive. Just focus on that." John murmured to the man he was now holding up. "He's alive."

The three of them stood in the hall as Gregory Lestrade was wheeled down the hall, barely clinging to life. Mycroft was unable to tear his eyes away.

* * *

><p>Violet watched the scene in the surgery hall from her mobile, and sniffled. John was a great guy. He took care of Mycroft like he took care of Sherlock, no thought for himself.<p>

She looked over to her laptop, and saw the vitals of Gregory Lestrade displayed on the screen. The hospital had a fully networked care system that let anyone with the right access see the real time vitals of any patient hooked into the system. Or if you were Violet Hunter, then you saw all that and more. She typed in a few lines of code, and she would know instantly if the DI got better or worse. She put the program in the background, and went back to her original task.

She was hunting down all the leaks Moriarty had put in the government systems. Especially in MOD and MI5, MI6. Her traitor couldn't have done all of the damage she was seeing in the codes. Many of the backdoors, access ports, had been there for years. Some of them looked like they had been built into the codes at origination, as if whoever designed the code knew Moriarty would one day be accessing them. Which could very well be the case. Where there was one traitor, there could be more. Once Mycroft was back in fighting form she would tell him what she found.

Violet followed John and the Holmes brothers on her mobile, so she knew when Mycroft was deposited in Anthea's room, where the very pretty MI6 operative was sleeping. John was bringing Sherlock back to his room. It was almost lunch time, and Violet crinkled her nose at the thought of hospital food.

_Wonder if Sherlock would let me have his Jell-O. Do Brits have Jell-O in their hospitals? Hmmm. _

She jumped off his bed, and went to the couch bed futon thing under the window. She tugged at the seat experimentally, and laughed as it folded out into a bed. She was glad. She was so tired. She had been planning at bunking at Sherlock's, but his place was a smoke infested, brick riddled, broken glass everywhere disaster. And she had no intention of getting a hotel room. She had pissed off Uncle Sam, and she was safest closest to the Holmes brothers. Uncle Sam wouldn't dare to try and send someone for her here. So she would stay near Sherlock and Mycroft until Uncle Sam found someone more interesting to chase. She had no problem ignoring John and Sherlock snuggling if they wanted. And if John didn't want to bother Sherlock's ribs, he could sleep with her. There was room. She'd behave. Maybe.

Violet went back for her stuff, and dropped it all on the floor next to the makeshift bed. She did steal a blanket, and one of his many pillows, and was fully ensconced and wrapped up as she heard Sherlock complaining in the hall.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was loathe to admit it, but he was glad John was dragging him back to bed. He was so tired and stressed out that he was able to not deduce every person he saw in the halls. He didn't object when John half carried him, half dragged him back in to his room.<p>

Sherlock saw Violet on the bed under the window, and easily ignored her presence. She was pretending to be asleep, so he would pretend he thought she was. John hadn't seen her, so absorbed was he in getting Sherlock back in his bed. Sherlock slowly relaxed back on the mattress, sighing in relief as he settled down. John tucked him in, and Sherlock barely registered his dear doctor hooking him back up to the morphine drip. Thankfully John kept it on low, so all it did was numb the pain, and not his mind.

John went to sit in the chair, stopping when Sherlock tried to grab his hand.

"Sleep with me." Sherlock whispered. His eyes were heavy, and he tried again to reach for John.

"Your ribs, love. I don't want to put pressure on them." John whispered to him. His hand pushed away a curl from his eyes, and Sherlock pouted when he pulled away. Sherlock needed his doctor, wanted him near. He had the foolish thought running through his head that if he went to sleep, John would disappear.

"Please." Sherlock struggled not to sleep. He heard John sigh.

Sherlock stayed awake long enough to hear John toe off his shoes, and come around to his right side. This bed was bigger than his last, and John was able to fit up on the mattress with him. John lay along his side, and very carefully snuggled with his arm and shoulder.

"This okay? Doesn't hurt?" John whispered in his ear.

Sherlock hummed quietly in approval, and the last thing he felt was John kissing his cheek.

* * *

><p>Mary stepped through the door of 23-24 Leinster Gardens, making sure no one saw her. The streets were empty, and she was thankful. It had taken her longer than she would have liked to get here, as traffic through London was currently limited to emergency personnel and vehicles. Then she had to avoid the CCTV cameras, but that was easier than it would have been, as she remembered well the routes Jaime had taught her to avoid detection on the streets of London.<p>

She shut the door behind her, and barricaded it with a large box she pulled from a dusty corner. She turned on the few lights in this fake house, and saw signs of recent habitation. Most likely Sherlock. He had told her to come here the night before, when she hugged him and John goodbye. It had taken some soul searching on her part whether or not she would take his advice and come.

If she tried leaving England now, she would be caught. Jaime Moriarty was beyond reach. That meant the government would need someone to blame. Which meant her. She wasn't guiltless, not by any means. But the life she carried deserved to be born in the free air, not behind prison walls.

Mary had seen the explosion from the far side of the estate the night before, and it had sent her to her knees in grief. She knew, she knew, that Jaime was dead. Mary had wept in the tall wet grass in the deep shadows beside the river, watching as the flames freed a tortured soul from her nightmare of a life.

Mary hadn't been worried about John or Sherlock. She had seen the helicopter take off about a minute before the explosion hit, which meant they knew it was coming. More than enough time for them to get out. She had stolen a car an hour or so later, and she had heard on the radio that there had been no casualties in the explosion, which mean that the government was covering up Jaime Moriarty's existence, and her death. No one died in that fire, because they would then have to acknowledge that she lived. The bombings in the city were being attributed to unknown affiliates of Lord Moran, carrying out his aborted plans. It was almost true.

Mary dropped her duffel on the faded settee in the front room, and went exploring. The concrete shell around the Underground vent was small, but had two rooms and a bathroom off of a long hall. The bathroom had a sink and a toilet, and the shower was nothing but a spout from the wall over a drain in the floor. She didn't mind, she had hidden in worse places.

She couldn't stay here forever. She was pregnant, and as long as she hadn't triggered a miscarriage with her activities the night before, she intended to stay that way. She had never wanted anything so much in her life. And living in a fake house while being hunted by the government would only work as a short term solution.

Mary collapsed on the settee, knowing she should tend her injuries and get some sleep. She was soaked from the damp morning air, and she had left her jacket behind with Jaime in the cell. Mary bit back a fresh burst of pain at the thought of the younger Moriarty dying in that cage, trapped like an animal. She shouldn't have put her in there, but at the time Mary had thought it was the safest thing for her, to prevent Mycroft from shooting as soon as he saw her. Not even Mycroft Holmes would kill a woman as she lay helpless in a cage.

Mary wondered what had triggered the blast. Most likely Jaime had woken up, and done something to set off one of the bombs in the manor. She had not shared with Mary where they were, though Mary had long ago decided they were in the crates in the ballroom. There had been many that Mary hadn't seen inside of, and the placement of some of the crates suggested they were special.

She tugged listlessly at the duffel bag, unzipping it to evaluate her supplies. She ignored the clothing and medical supplies, looking for her weapons. She pulled out her box of aliases, and the nine mil and extra clip. She pawed through the bag, wondering where the knife went that she had taken from the sniper she shot the night before. She remembered taking the clip from his nine mil, tossing the gun, and putting the knife in her jacket… Mary shot to her feet, her heart racing, pulse pounding in her ears as the realization hit.

_I put the knife in the jacket. I put the jacket on Jaime. She had a knife in that cage. I could get out of that cell with a knife in no time. She could do it even faster._

_Oh Jaime. Sweetheart, are you out there?_

* * *

><p>John slept with Sherlock in his hospital bed all that day, and well into evening. He had only gotten up at the insistence of Sherlock's nurses, but once they left, he got right back in that bed. He was exhausted. They all were. And he wanted nothing more than to sleep next to Sherlock, feel his heart beat in his chest, hear him breathe. Know they were both alive and together. Sherlock hadn't even stirred when lunch was brought in, and it was sitting on the tray next to the bed still. John had gone to the restroom earlier, and noticed that the gelatin was gone. He'd thrown a glance in Violet's direction, but said nothing.<p>

John woke up as the sun disappeared below the horizon. Violet was awake as well, sitting up in bed with her back to the wall under the window. She had her laptop out and was working away at whatever it was she did. Sherlock still slept, and John carefully eased himself out of bed.

"Hey, John." Violet greeted him from her spot at the window.

"Violet." John tried to be quiet, and he walked over to the young hacker. She patted the cushions next to her, and he shrugged, crawling up next to her. John felt his brows raise up as she scooted over, and snuggled with him. Her raven hair tickled his chin as she rested her head on his shoulder. "What you doing?"

"Lots of things. Hunting hackers, looking for moles, bidding on eBay, watching Lestrade's vitals. He's still with us, by the way." Violet snuggled closer, and she roped an arm through his. She hit a key, and suddenly the screen was filled with Lestrade's vital signs. John sucked in a breath, both relieved and disturbed by what he saw. The DI wasn't any better, but he wasn't worse. Good news, for now.

John sighed, and leaned his head back. While he had been sleeping, he could not think about everything that had happened. Watching people he knew get kidnapped, hurt, thinking they were dead, getting kidnapped himself, sexually assaulted, almost dying so many times he lost count… And Mary. The assassin he had left because he loved his best friend more, was pregnant with his baby. He was going to be a father. All of this was chipping away at him. His world was all askew.

Violet was staring at him, and she snapped shut her laptop, put it on the floor, and wrapped her arms around him. John shuddered at the unexpected empathy from this near stranger, but it was what he needed. She was sweet and non-judgmental, and not burdened as deeply as he by recent events. Violet tugged him to her, and John went, wrapping his arms around her. He bit his lip, and tired not to cry. No grown man wants to weep on a girl almost young enough to be his daughter. She sat on the futon, and held him, and she seemed to know he was being stubborn, because she pressed a kiss to his temple.

"Who can the doctor save if he doesn't save himself?" She whispered. John laughed at the silliness, and that broke it for him. His laughter turned to tears. John let go, just let it all go. John sobbed out the stress, worry, guilt, fear, pain. The last month of his life easily eclipsed his discharge from the army, the loss of Sherlock to the Fall, those lonely months after. John cried quietly into the shoulder of this strange girl who reminded him so much of the man he loved. The man who was injured and hurt because John had angered the wrong woman. Because a madman years ago had taken his own life to force Sherlock to die, and the elder's death had broken the younger Moriarty beyond repair.

John cried it all out. He wept, and couldn't stop. Violet held him tight, right up until he felt the long slim fingers slide through his hair. He hadn't even heard Sherlock get out of bed. Violet let him pull away, and John fought to control his tears, not wanting to let Sherlock see him cry. Sherlock was having none of that. He sat on the other side of John, pulled his doctor to him. John went, Violet nearly pushing him, as Sherlock sat back against the wall. John didn't want to put any weight on Sherlock's ribs, but Sherlock was stubborn, and John curled up to his uninjured side.

"I love you." Sherlock whispered in his ear. "I love you, John."

John cried on his lover's bare shoulder. Violet had disappeared. John knew nothing but the strength under his hands and the lips that Sherlock pressed to his tear streaked face. Sherlock. His name, the sound of his voice, all of it a balm on the doctor's wounded soul. John had never needed, had never wanted, someone as much as he did Sherlock. Just the heat from his long form, and the way he touched him, swept all the heartache away, grief and fear falling to ash.

John's tears eased, and he rested on Sherlock's shoulder. His detective's wonderful hands were rubbing over his shoulders, his back, caressing his neck. Sherlock tipped up his chin, gorgeous eyes searching his face. His fingers wiped away the remaining tears, and John tried to smile.

"Better?" Sherlock kissed him, and John stirred enough to kiss him back.

"Much better." John brought his hand up, and deepened the kiss. He touched his tongue to Sherlock's lips, sweeping across them, encouraging them to open. Sherlock sighed, a small moan escaping from his detective as he let John in. "I love you, too."

Sherlock caught his face between his strong hands, and pulled John up on his knees. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, and he fought to breathe past the fire burning in his lungs, his heart. Every touch lit him on fire. Sparks tingled along his skin, and John struggled to remember where they were, that they couldn't indulge themselves.

John pulled back, gasping for air. "You're hurt, we shouldn't….." Sherlock pulled him back down, and kissed him so deeply John lost the ability to think.

"Violet's guarding the door from the hall. No one is getting in here." Sherlock whispered in his ear, his mouth sucking and nipping at a tender spot on his neck. "I've got a day's worth of morphine in me, I'm not good for much. Just let me touch you."

"Oh….." John gasped as Sherlock's tongue soothed the bite marks on his neck. John tried to pull away, not wanting Sherlock to touch them, but his detective was insistent. He stopped caring what was wrong with his neck, and focused instead on how Sherlock was making him feel.

"Mine." Sherlock whispered in his ear, tugging at John's hips. John straddled Sherlock's lap, and his detective went back to nuzzling his neck, tongue lapping at his skin. "You're mine, John. I love you."

Sherlock kissed his neck, sucking and nipping. His clever hands rubbed up his sides, across his stomach, his chest. John groaned, and bit at Sherlock's earlobe. His detective moaned, and scraped his teeth down the strong lines of his doctor's throat, to were the pulse beat rapidly. He sucked, and John never noticed when Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt. His long fingers raced across the muscles of John's chest, one thumb teasing over a nipple. John jumped at the unexpected touch, and Sherlock grinned.

"Sherlock….." John wanted nothing more than to keep going. To pull Sherlock down on that bed, and do things to this man that would erase every tear, pain and heartbreak from his soul. "I want you."

"You have me." Sherlock went to rip John's shirt off, and John helped him, shrugging out of his shirt, letting it fall on the floor. Sherlock's mouth traveled down his neck to his chest, licking and biting.

His detective brought his hands to John's belt, and tugged it free. He paused, as if waiting for something. John got impatient, and pulled his belt off, throwing it over his shoulder. He dimly heard it hit the tile floor. Sherlock laughed and pulled John in for an open mouthed kiss, tongues dancing, their breath panting over wet lips, hands grasping at the other.

Sherlock thrust his hips up, catching John and lifting him, and he let Sherlock flip him on his back. Sherlock came over him, his hips resting between John's legs. John held him close, wrapping his legs around Sherlock's thighs. John refused to let Sherlock stop kissing him, his hands buried in those unbelievably soft curls.

"Psst!" Came the not-so-subtle whisper from the door. "Company incoming!"

Sherlock groaned, and thrust his hips once, twice, rubbing himself on John's groin. John thrust back up, and fought to restrain himself. A large part of him said he should find a way to lock the door, and spend the night making love to his detective. But the more prudent part of him said they should stop. The fist that banged on the door twice made him groan, and pull back from Sherlock.

"Play time is over, love." John whispered across Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock rolled on his back, arms above his head. Both of them were breathing hard, John watching Sherlock pant shallow breaths. John sat up, and reached down for his shirt, tugging it back on. The door opened just a crack, and Violet peeked in. He waved at her, and she opened the door wider, sneaking back in the room, closing it shut behind her.

"I lied to the doctor, said you were helping Sherlock in the bathroom, and you two needed some privacy. He's coming back in a few minutes." Violet didn't bother hiding the grin on her face, especially when she bent over and picked John's belt up off the floor. She waved it around, and John huffed at her as he jumped up from the futon, snatching it out of her hands. She giggled, and walked past him to Sherlock.

Sherlock was still on his back, and hadn't moved much. He was very pale, and John felt the stirrings of guilt at the pain etched on his lover's face. They shouldn't have been fooling around like that.

"John, don't you dare feel bad. Sherlock, time to get up. Bathroom break, then back to bed before your other doctor decides to put you in a coma to make you behave." Violet put her hands under Sherlock's shoulders, and John helped her lift Sherlock up and on his feet. She appeared completely willing to follow Sherlock into the bathroom, but John shooed her away at the door. She just grinned at him, and flounced back to the futon under the window.

* * *

><p>Sherlock kicked John out of the bathroom, refusing to submit his dignity by asking for help. He could manage. The morphine was wearing off, arousal and heavy petting having worked it out of his system faster. Sherlock had woken up to hear Violet comforting John, and the sight had made Sherlock get out of bed. He didn't begrudge John finding comfort from Violet, not at all. It was Sherlock who wanted to be offering it. John was his.<p>

Sherlock opened the door, listening to Violet tease John. John bore up under it well, ignoring her jabs as he would Sherlock's. The detective observed the incongruity of having John and Violet in the same space. Two separate parts of his life, colliding.

"Violet, I need you to do something." Sherlock gasped from the bathroom door, as John hurried to his side. John helped him back to his bed, and Sherlock held out a hand to keep John from reattaching the morphine.

"Yeah, Sexy?" She came over to him, and sat at his feet on the bed.

"I'm assuming that since you've already been to Baker Street that getting around the city isn't an issue for you." Sherlock told his hacker, John's eyebrows rising in question.

"Takes me slightly longer, but I can manage just fine." Violet had that look on her face, the one she got when she was planning something mischievous. "The city is shut down due to the bombings, but I'm not hindered by it."

"Good." Sherlock leaned back on the pillows, looking for the button to raise the bed up. John read his mind, and did it for him. "Mary is where we were hiding after you helped me escape. I need you to go see if she's alright."

John looked like Sherlock had just lit the sheets on fire, he was so shocked. Sherlock smirked at him, and tugged John's hand.

"Hell, yeah." She sat up straighter, her eyes twinkling. "I'm thinking that since you're asking me, it needs to stay secret?"

"Yes. The government is after her. She must not be found." Sherlock stressed that last part, eyeing the door, watching for the unwanted doctor to return. Violet was literally rubbing her hands together in anticipation.

"Yeah no kidding. Pregnant and in prison, not a good mix." Violet jumped off the bed, and went for her bag. "She'll need supplies, meds, clothes….. it's cold as hell in there too….."

"Wait, does everyone know Mary's pregnant? How was I the last to know?" John groused, and Sherlock tried to restrain his laughter at the exasperated look on his doctor's face. "Was it really obvious or something?"

"Terribly." Violet laughed at John's face, and she ran back to him, hugging his shoulders in apology. "I only know because Sherlock told me. And the girls know because Mary told Jaime in front of them."

"Shit. Which means Mycroft will know once Anthea tells him." John ran a hand through his short hair making parts of it stick up. "I should come with you."

"Ummm…" Violet looked at Sherlock, biting her lip. "Anthea is still asleep, and Mycroft is distracted by Lestrade. Mycroft has his focus split. It would be easier if I had help. Just don't know if she wants two of us showing up."

"Go, John. I'll be fine. The two of you should be able to slip out unobserved." Sherlock let his head fall back on his pillows. "Please be careful."

Violet didn't answer, just dropped her bag on the bed next to his legs, and dug through it.

"Here. These cells are clean. Untraceable." She pulled out two mobiles, dropping one each in John and Sherlock's hands. "Not even Mycroft can find these. They are sisters; the other numbers are programmed in there. Mine is number one."

"You ready to evade your government, aid a wanted woman, and watch me be totally awesome?" Violet asked John, grinning as he gulped. "Don't worry John; I know you've done far worse with Sherlock. I'm tame compared to him. Now kiss your man goodbye. I'm aiming to misbehave."

"Christ Sherlock, what have you gotten me into?" John grumbled, but he bent over Sherlock, and kissed his detective. Sherlock held him, and John pulled back when Violet started chuckling. John grinned at them both, and for the first time in weeks, John felt a trickle of excitement that wasn't laced with grief.

"Sherlock, the cells will alert if Lestrade gets worse. Don't let Mycroft see it." Violet told him as she grabbed John's hand, eagerly pulling him out the door. She had both their jackets in hand already, her bag slung over a shoulder. "I'll text you as we go along."

Sherlock watched until Violet and John disappeared out the door. He fell back on the pillows, and he slowly reached out for the morphine drip, reattaching it. He set the drip on low, and hid the mobile under his pillow. He had some thinking to do, and he knew the way forward for them all would be tricky. Mary, John, himself, even Violet. Her determination to stay in his radius was telling; something had happened that made her want to stick around.

He had no issue with her staying, or with letting her leave with John. She had intelligence, and John was capable of protecting the both of them. He owed John the truth when he got back. Her, too.

* * *

><p>Mary tried sleeping. The settee smelled lightly of Sherlock. This must have been where he stayed after escaping from the hospital. It had been a long, cold day, and Mary had done her best to rest. She had showered, and changed clothes. The nine mil was under her hand where it rested on the settee.<p>

_Jaime. Are you alive? Am I foolish for wishing you were? I heard your words to Sherlock. I heard every word. How did I reach you? What did I do to make you love me? Sweetheart, I don't know what I'm feeling, but the remains of my heart break every time I think you might be dead…..and that you may live._

The wind picked up outside, and Mary curled up on the settee, wrapping her arms around her knees. She would have to leave, and soon. Staying here may be the smart move to stay hidden, but not if she wanted to stay healthy. She used to be able to stay awake for days on end, with little food, limited clean water, and still be able to finish her missions with precision and efficiency. But that was nearly six years ago now; six years younger, and she had been in her prime. She hadn't been living comfortably with a regular job, easy lazy weekends. Muscle memory and deeply ingrained habits would keep her going for a long time, but she would gradually lose her edge. No one stayed young forever.

And she would not be at her best, suffering from morning sickness. And the resultant change in her body as the pregnancy continued would reduce her ability to defend herself.

_One more day, Sherlock, then I have to leave._

* * *

><p>Violet led John down the hall, past the stairs, and around a corner, heading towards the service elevator.<p>

"Where are we going?" John asked quietly, walking beside her. She threw him a look, tilting her head towards one of Mycroft's men walking just ahead of them. He shut up, which she was thankful for.

Violet snagged his arm, and pulled him behind a large rack holding bed linens. She waited, watching as the MI6 operative disappeared into a restroom. She tugged John after her, and they ran past the public bathroom, and she kept running until the rounded another corner. The service elevator was at the end, and she wasted no time in slapping the call button.

"We get to the back service entrance, there's going to be lines of cars. Most of them are MI6 and Scotland Yard vehicles. We are going past the patrol cars, down the line to the first black town car we see. You are to look no one in the eye, avoid making any facial expressions whatsoever. Look bored, if you can manage to get that eager grin off your face." Violet told John as she paced in front of the doors, waiting on the elevator. John was grinning, the sneaking around already working its magic on him. She grinned in return, the night's festivities just beginning.

"I'm letting you in on trade secrets, John Watson. I'm not just a hacker; I'm damn good at stealing just about anything, not just information." She pulled him in the car just as the doors opened, and she started humming as the doors shut. John threw her a look, one part curiosity, the other a fun mix of fear and eagerness.

"I'm afraid to ask, but what are you humming?" John asked her, as she watched the floors light up as they headed down. "It sounds so familiar. You were humming it on the phone when you helped us with Mary and Moriarty."

"I'm surprised you don't know it, Sherlock would play it all the time." Violet winked at him, and walked out the elevator as the doors dinged open. "Man loves his Bach. Show time Dr Watson, give me your bored face."

She heard him grumbling behind her, but she ignored it, pulling out her ever trusty mobile, and pulled up an app. It was her VIN tracker, and any vehicle with networking capability was vulnerable. All she had to do was take a picture of the VIN, and she would be able to hack into the locking mechanisms, the ignition if it had auto-start. All of the town cars used by MI6 did. She had been borrowing Mycroft's rides for the last day.

She cast a look at John just before the doors, and she stopped in disgust. "That's your bored face? Crap. Alright, take out the cell I gave you and pretend you're talking to someone you hate."

John looked sheepish, and he tugged out the mobile she had given him, and she smirked as he tried to pretend he was talking on the phone. "You don't have to say anything, just pretend you're listening. This would be sad if it wasn't going to be so much fun. Ready? Out we go."

Her demeanor changed as she swept out the doors, her stance changing to one of authority, and she walked with a long limbed grace that said she had a purpose. And beware anyone who got in her way. Violet knew she was striking, and that men looked. She would use it to her advantage, but she also knew when to play it down. She heard John follow behind her, and she walked down the length of vehicles behind the hospital, heading straight for the town cars. She didn't raise her mobile, but the app was running. There were police officers and MI6 agents littering the back alley, and she would nod to any that met her eye.

Violet pretended to stumble, her hand flashing up to steady herself on the hood of the closest town car. She was subtle, but she got the VIN captured, and let the app run as she bent down next to the driver's side door, as if she were fixing her heel.

"You okay?" John asked, mobile still pressed to his ear. She fought back a laugh, and watched his face as the car she was leaning on roared to life, the door unlocking at the same time. His expression was priceless, and she stood back up, opening the door for him.

"Hop in, Doc. Let's go shopping." Violet got behind the wheel, as John tried and failed to look inconspicuous getting in the front passenger seat. "Fuck me, John. Have you ever stolen anything before?"

"Um, no." John shut his door, and he hastily threw on his seatbelt as she drove the powerful car out of the line, and down the alley. The government plates would give them the license they needed to travel through the shutdown city.

* * *

><p>He knew he was dead. He must be, to hear her voice. She had fallen days ago. He waited, wondering why he couldn't see her. He heard her voice, as familiar to him as his own. He was surrounded by grey fog, hiding her from sight. He thought he lost her again, as she was quiet. He waited, and as time passed, the urgency to hear her again began to fade. Maybe she was waiting on him. He had to let go, find her on his own.<p>

"His blood pressure improved there for a minute. Try again, he may have heard you." It was a voice he had never heard before, and he had no desire to find it. It wasn't her.

"Boss? It's Sally. I'm not dead. That's completely messed up, I know. Please don't leave me." She sounded so sad. Why was she sad? And what did she mean, she wasn't dead? Of course she was. He was dead, and he heard her. "Greg, please don't go."

She was crying. He heard the tears. She never cried. Why was Sally crying? He remembered her now. Stubborn, mean, his, all his. His Sally, and his friend. Partners. Where was she?

He was so tired. Maybe she was lost like him. Sally never asked for help if she was lost. He just wanted to sleep, he would find her in a little while.

"He may not be able to respond, it may be too early. We can try again later." The strange voice was speaking, and he ignored it. He was too tired.

Sally faded away. She left. He would find her soon, but he was too tired.

Nothing for the longest time, just the grey expanse of fog, of emptiness. Being dead was so easy, effortless.

He could hear, in the quiet, the sound of someone calling. Calling him. What was his name again? It must be him that voice is calling to, there was no one else here. Just him.

"Gregory." Strong voice. But sad. Why was he sad? "I don't believe you can hear me. This is foolishness. You've been heavily sedated for over twelve hours, and you've been shot, operated on, died once already. But I can't stay away anymore."

"You're dying, Gregory." That voice was closer now, so near. He tried looking for it, reaching for it. He knew that voice. "I don't recall telling you to die."

_He sounds mad now. Why is he mad? I thought I was dead already. Don't be mad. Please. _

"You can't hear me. But… if you could, I would…. I would tell you to stay. Here. Order you, even. Order you to stay. Listen to me, talking to you like this." He sounded sadder now. The anger was gone.

_Don't be sad. Not for me. Why am I making you sad? _

"If you could hear me, I would… I would tell you that I am afraid. Afraid that if you die, I stop being myself. I won't be able to function, think, move, live. You make me want to try. Try to be more than just the Iceman. More than a nameless entity with too much power."

_You aren't nameless. I know your name. Mycroft. I hear you. Keep talking to me; don't leave me alone in the dark. _

"Gregory. Greg." Hesitant now. Still so very sad. "You won't make it if you don't wake up. I won't make it if you don't wake up. Open your eyes, dammit!"

"Sir, please don't raise your voice. If you can't calm down, I will have to ask you to leave." That strange voice again. He didn't want to hear that voice. He wanted to hear Mycroft.

Greg tried moving through the fog. Mycroft was here somewhere. He wanted to see Mycroft. Mycroft couldn't be here, not if he was dead. Mycroft was not dead. Mycroft was alive. He would know, he would feel it, if Mycroft was gone. That meant he wasn't dead.

_I'm not dead. Mycroft!_

"I doubt my tone of voice will affect his current condition more than the bullet that ripped through him as he saved your life. Get out now, or I will have you exiled to Eastern Europe!" Furious now, Mycroft's voice. Cold, rigid, and furious.

There was a shuffling of feet, and whoever it was left. Mycroft was still there. Greg faltered in the grey fog. He wasn't weightless anymore. He felt something. Warmth. A gentle heat on his hand. Greg could feel Mycroft's hand, and it made his heart race. Mycroft was closer, so close.

"What must I do? Order you to stay? I can do that. I need you to wake up. I'm ordering you to wake up, Greg. Now."

_I won't leave you. Never. Keep calling me. Show me the way back. I don't want to leave you._

Mycroft's voice was so close now. Right inside his head. Warm breath rushing across his ear, the cool scent of pine and whiskey. He knew them, he had spent days wrapped up in this man. He wanted him, needed him. Greg struggled out of the mist, answering that order as best he could.

"Greg, I need you, I want you. Please come back to me." Mycroft's words echoed the ones in his heart. Greg ripped himself from the fog, and reached.

Greg took a deep breath, and immediately wished he hadn't. The pain was intense. His side felt like it was on fire, molten lava dripping on him, down his side. It ate at him, chasing him, making him squirm and gasp on the uncomfortable mattress. His back was on fire too. He couldn't escape the pain. Pinpricks were everywhere, his arms itching. Greg opened his eyes, and the light above him hurt too. Tears ran from his eyes, down his temples.

"Greg? Doctor, get back in here, now! Greg, don't move, stay still." Mycroft was leaning over him, his slim hands lightly touching Greg's cheek, eyes bright with disbelief and joy. "I can't believe you woke up. Doctor, get in here, now!"

Greg didn't pay any attention to the people who swarmed over him. He ignored the doctors, the nurses, all the people asking him questions. He pushed aside the pain, and felt his heart beat in his chest at the sight of this man who had called him back. Ordered him back. He looked past the light being shone in his eyes, to Mycroft. The MI6 man was standing back, letting the medical team fuss over him.

"Mycroft…." He tried to speak, his voice weak and unsure. It hurt him, the effort it took to talk. He tried again, a nurse leaning over him, trying to hear what he was saying. He whispered his words to her, and she pulled back, a tiny smile on her face.

"What did he say?" Mycroft demanded. The nurse turned Mycroft, and she grinned.

"He said, 'Anything for you, sir.'"

The look on Mycroft's face was reward enough for all the pain and stress, the uncertainty and agony. The Iceman was gone. There was only Mycroft. Greg fought against the pain, eyes locked on the man who had called him back from oblivion. Mycroft was a man worth coming back for.


	35. Brother Mine

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**A/N: Soon I'll be at the end of this particular story. I'll take suggestions on how to publish the next two installments. Shall I add them on to this story, as in 'Part Two, Part Three', or publish them as separate entities? Everything is already plotted out, I just need feedback on how to post it all. Please let me know in the reviews, or private messages.**

**Please enjoy this chapter. For those of you who may think Violet Hunter is an OC, she is actually a Conan Doyle character, and I have just changed her to fit my story. Some Holmesian scholars theorized on her true identity in relation to Sherlock Holmes after he created her character, as Holmes' reaction to her was significant. I won't spoil anything, just feel free to go research her on Wikipedia, and there are even some published works out there that discuss her connection to Conan Doyle's Sherlock.**

**Please enjoy.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirty Five<strong>

"_**Brother Mine"**_

"Do you want to knock already? These bags aren't getting any lighter." Violet grumbled to the doctor, his hand raised to knock at the door of 23-24 Leinster Gardens.

John hesitated. Mary may not even be in there anymore. _There's no guarantee that she even came here. It's well past midnight now, most likely closer to two in the morning really. She might be sleeping._

"John!" Violet snapped at him.

John gathered his courage, and knocked. Or he tried, as the door opened before his knuckles hit the wood. John found himself staring down the barrel of a 9mm, with a blonde assassin at the other end. He froze, and met her eyes over the gun. She looked pissed. It was very late at night. _Ooops._

"Oh, that's Mary! Darling, you look way to fine to be getting blood splattered all over that sweater. Except for the bruises. Is it true she hit you as part of an ambush? Wow. How about you not shoot your baby daddy, and you let me in? John can stay out in the cold, that's cool." Violet spoke over his shoulder, and Mary slowly broke eye contact to look at the girl behind him. John watched as Mary did a double take, her eyes widening when she saw Violet.

The gun dropped, and John sucked in some air, thankful he'd used the restroom at the last place they stopped before coming here. Mary backed away from the door, and John took that as an invitation, stepping over the threshold into the most bizarre building he'd ever seen. It looked utterly normal on the outside, but the inside was nothing but a long concrete hall, with a small room near the front. He saw a few doors off the hall, and thought there might be more rooms as the space went on.

Violet scampered in behind him, and she kicked the door shut. Violet had bags overflowing from both hands, and John carried an armful himself. Violet had insisted they get everything she thought a woman in hiding might need. John had been flummoxed by some of her selections. What was Mary going to be needing a hair dryer for? Or hairspray? She was in hiding, right? But he had been on enough shopping trips with girlfriends in his life to know the futility of arguing with a woman when she was shopping.

"I wasn't expecting you, John." Mary said as she tucked the gun into her waistband, walking away from him. She stood near a faded and dusty settee, arms crossed over her chest. He couldn't tell if she was angry, sad, tired, or if this is what the real Mary Morstan looked like all the time. _Or is it Amelia?_

"I wasn't expecting me to be here, either. But Sherlock said you were here, and we thought you may need some things." John said, and he smiled ruefully as she lifted a brow at him. He put his bags next to the door. "Oh fine, Violet did all the shopping, I just carried everything."

"And a marvelous job you did, too. Gold star, Sexy." Violet walked right past him, and dropped the bags on the settee next to Mary. She moved without fear, not at all bothered by the fact she was in the same room as the woman who had been in league with Death only a few days earlier. John was having trouble, for so many reasons.

Mary was staring at Violet, and Violet was unashamedly staring right back. The raven haired beauty was the taller of the two women, nearly as tall as Sherlock, and Mary was shorter than John. The size discrepancy didn't matter at all as the two sized each other up. John felt like he was caught in an alley with two cats, and they were sniffing noses, trying to decide if they would be friends or bitter enemies.

Mary broke the silence first, dropping her arms, and turning fully to Violet. She was smiling, her blue eyes twinkling in the low lamp light. Violet just kept staring, her vivid eyes evaluating the blonde assassin.

"You look just like him." She said, eyeing Violet from head to toe. "I'd say family, but Jaime had a dossier on the entire Holmes' clan, and there was no daughter. Another son, yes, but no daughter."

John jumped, staring at Mary. _Another son? There's another Holmes brother? What the hell?_

"I never asked." Violet smiled at the blonde assassin. She seemed to make up her mind, as she spun on her heels, diving into the bags on the settee. Clothing, toiletries and random packages spilled out everywhere.

"What do you mean, another son?" John asked Mary. He really needed to know. There was no way that he had missed something like that all these years. But then, he hadn't even known that Sherlock had parents until two weeks ago.

Mary spared him a look, as she bent over the supplies next to Violet.

"Yes, he died years ago. He was the eldest, by quite a few years." Mary said, not even paying attention to his shock. "There was no name, just the initials of **S.H.** Same as Sherlock. You want to know more, ask him. The man was his brother, after all."

"Yeah, I guess I will." John didn't know if he was mad or not. But if his oldest brother was dead, and had been for a long time, he could see how that wouldn't be a topic of conversation. Sherlock never volunteered information, especially about his family. Other than Mycroft, that is. Sherlock loved to complain about Mycroft.

John watched the ladies as they picked through the bags, already acting like they'd known each other for years. They were chatting quietly, and he caught Violet sneaking a random glance his way once in a while. He shouldn't be surprised. They were both crazy. He pulled out the mobile that Violet had given him, and started sending a text to the other phone.

**At the safe house. Mary and Violet are fast friends. Why didn't you tell me you had another brother? –JW**

Nothing for a few minutes. John sat on a box next to the door, finding himself glad to be ignored. He had no notion of how to interact with Mary. He tried not to feel like he was being rude, or that he was hiding.

**He died a very long time ago. It never mattered. –SH**

Most people would be demanding to know how he found out, who told him, things like that. Not Sherlock. He wouldn't care, or he would correctly figure it out on his own. But John was feeling lost, and he hated that feeling. So if his next text came out slightly snarky, he didn't mean it that way. Maybe.

**Maybe it matters now? –JW **

John waited, wondering if he'd put Sherlock off. He didn't mean to be demanding. Mary was making him uncomfortable. He kept thinking he should say something, but he had no idea what. It was several minutes before Sherlock replied.

**Is this one of those relationship rules?-SH**

**Yes. –JW**

**I'll tell you in person then. Is Mary well? –SH**

**Must be, she's ignoring me. –JW**

**Better than her trying to kill you. –SH**

**HA. True. How are you feeling? –JW**

**I am fine. High, but fine. –SH**

**Turn down the morphine, Sherlock. –JW**

**Boring! Fine. Hurry back. Mycroft came by to 'visit'. Spying, more like. Lestrade woke up. –SH**

John felt a rush of happiness at that bit of news, and he looked up from the mobile to the women organizing the supplies.

"Violet, Lestrade woke up." John told the brunette. She smiled at him, and pulled out her mobile. She checked the notifications, her brows rising.

"So he did! Less than an hour ago from the heart rate monitor. He's sleeping now, though. Good for him." She tucked her mobile away, and went back to stacking canned food on a shelf.

"What happened to Greg, John?" Mary asked. She sounded nervous, like she actually cared.

"One of Moriarty's guards shot him when he disarmed the bomb set to blow up St Bart's." John told her, trying his best not to come across accusatory. Lestrade nearly died because of her friend. Because she joined up with Moriarty. He didn't try hard enough, because her eyes went flinty, and she turned her back on him. His eyes were drawn to the grip of the gun as it peeked out from under her cream colored jumper. She carried it the way most women carried a purse; so used to it that its presence was normal.

"I won't bother apologizing, John. And you wouldn't believe me anyway." She spoke quietly, to the wall, but her tone was hard and unforgiving. Violet sent her a curious look, but she held her tongue, just watching.

John sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. Mary was pushing all his buttons. She was almost unreadable. He couldn't tell if she was upset, sad, remorseful, nothing. Just vague hints of emotion that traveled across her face. She was hiding herself from him, hiding what she was thinking and feeling.

"I didn't come here to argue." John said, mumbling. He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. It was a small room, and she heard him.

"Why did you come, John? Why are you here? Why not just let me get caught, or turn me in yourself? Why come here with Sherlock's niece, arms full of peace offerings, and then dare to get mad at me for asking after the welfare of a man I genuinely liked?" She spun back to him, so fast his hand went instinctively for the gun he had tucked under his own jumper. He stopped himself, but it was too late. She saw his reaction, her eyes glacial and fierce.

Mary was furious. Absolutely enraged. Her face was snow white, eyes like blue diamonds, and just as hard. He felt a cold chill run over his skin.

"What, I'm pregnant, and suddenly you expect me to be friendly? That I'm not still horribly pissed off at you? I may have decided to help you, but that doesn't excuse the fact you left me for a man who made you think he was dead for two years!" She was so angry she was growling out the next words. "And regardless of my actions the last several days, I didn't want you all dead! I spared your friends! And I certainly didn't have to answer the fucking phone when Sherlock called!"

John didn't answer, he had nothing to say that wouldn't incite her further. That wouldn't make him blow up just as badly. He just sat there, his face clearly broadcasting his own upset state, biting his tongue. He felt ashamed for his knee-jerk reaction in reaching for his weapon. His lack of an answer didn't help, as she went from furious to insanely scary in mere seconds.

"You asshole." Mary spat at him, and she stalked out of the room. He heard something shatter in the next room, like she had picked up a mug and thrown it at a wall. Violet was staring at the door, mouth open. There came another crash, and he could've sworn he heard her swearing. Her voice was different, and she sounded more like Violet. She sounded American. A very pissed off American woman who had spent the better part of two decades killing people because she was paid to.

"This is the best day of felonies _ever._" Violet breathed out in awe. She slapped a hand over her mouth at the curses coming from the other room. She giggled softly, and winked at his look of indignation. "John, a piece of unsolicited advice: Never piss off a pregnant assassin."

It was that reminder of Mary's condition that swept away his anger. She was pregnant. He had gotten her pregnant. His responsibility. _Must be hormones. Please let it be hormones_.

_Shit. I will not run away, I will not run away. I'm going to sit here until she calms down, and then I'll see if she'll talk to me. Oh shit. No running, I'm fairly certain Violet would kick my ass after Mary got done with me. I have completely fucked this up. What if she leaves? What if she doesn't leave? Christ._

His mobile buzzed at him, and he looked down, glad for the distraction. Things were still breaking in the other room.

**What's taking so long? Thought we were having a relationship thing? –SH**

**Mary got mad at me. Really mad. –JW**

**She try to kill you? –SH**

**No. She's breaking things in the other room. –JW**

**Then she's not that mad. –SH**

**And you're an expert on mad women? –JW**

**I'm an expert on psychopaths. –SH**

**Oh. Yeah. I feel tons better now. –JW**

**Do hurry up. I'm not sleeping alone. –SH**

There hadn't been the sound of anything breaking for a couple of minutes. John looked nervously down the hall, and glanced at Violet. She was thinking hard, her nose crinkling up exactly like Sherlock's did when he didn't like what he was thinking.

"What?" John asked her. She seemed to be hung up on something.

"I am so glad I never made a move on him." She said, shrugging her shoulders and dropping the last can on a shelf. "Not that it would have been a serious move, wrong equipment and all, but the thought was there for all of a nanosecond. Curiosity, really, and he was always safe."

"Who? What?" John was lost. She relaxed, as if what she was thinking wasn't all that bad after all.

"I think Mary's conjecture is spot on. Sherlock is my uncle." She had a look on her face, as if she was contemplating what shoes to wear or what government agency to hack into. Not at all bothered that she had just dropped a hell of a revelation on Sherlock's boyfriend. "Well, fuck. That means Mycroft is my uncle, too."

"What?! How did you not know?" John was at the point of the conversation where anything else she said just didn't register. "How? What? _Does he know?!_"

John was whipping the mobile up, determined to call Sherlock and figure out what the hell was going on. How could the Holmes brothers not acknowledge her if she was family? How the hell could anyone do that? He jumped as Violet's hand snatched the mobile out of his grasp.

"No." She glared at him. John gaped at her, totally lost. "He's in the hospital, John. For fuck's sake, it's not an issue. I'm still the same person, he's still the same Sherlock, and unfortunately, Mycroft is still the same too. It's not a problem. It hasn't been an issue for the last eleven years, so it's not going to matter for the next few hours. You can ask him when we get back. Don't harangue him over the fucking phone."

"But….." John was completely lost. This girl might be his lover's niece, and the idea of it didn't seem as much of a revelation to her as it was to him. "Don't you want to know?"

"We can ask him later. I'm sure he knows. Sherlock not saying anything about it could mean anything, really." Violet reached down, and pulled him to his feet. "I'll love him all the same, no matter what the answer is. I know you'll love him, too."

"Mary! We're out, let you get some sleep. Enjoy the space heater and blankets! And there should be a sleeping bag and chocolate in the bags John left by the door! And I got you a burner cell, it's in there too!" Violet called down the hall. The only answer they got was a very quiet good night in response. John wavered, wanting to go down there, see if she was okay. Though Mary might shoot him if he did. "Sherlock gave me the keys to this place, they're on the settee!"

Violet dragged him out of the room, and she pulled him out of the building. John pulled the door shut, waiting near it until he heard Mary lock it from the other side. John felt like an ass. He had come to see how she was, to try and talk to her, maybe find out her plans. Anything other than what had actually happened.

Violet dragged him to the black car, and he shook his head in amazement as she turned it on with her mobile. She was just as brilliant as Sherlock. It would be the world's grandest coincidence if it turned out they weren't related. And if it turned out that they were blood.

They got in, and she pulled out her laptop. She had done this as they left the twenty four hour shopping center outside of London. She had told him she was blacking out the CCTV cameras in a ten block radius around Leinster Gardens. If anyone managed to track them that far, there would still be hundreds of potential places for Mary to be within that area, so finding her wouldn't be that much easier. He watched as Violet checked to make sure the blackout was still in effect. It was, and she set it to a timer, to resume normal coverage once they were out of the radius.

Part of him was wondering why he didn't feel guilty about messing with those cameras. But he knew that if MI6 found Mary, he would most likely never see her again. Or know his unborn child.

* * *

><p>Sherlock tucked the mobile back under his pillow, hearing footsteps coming down the hall to his room. He was right to be cautious, as it was Mycroft. This was the second time in two hours he had been by, the first not long after Lestrade had woken up. He had been awake for only a few minutes, but it was enough to get his brother out of the deep state of despair he had been in. Sherlock hadn't seen Mycroft that deeply affected for decades.<p>

"Shouldn't someone be in here, making sure you aren't dipping too deeply into your medication?" Mycroft didn't bother turning on the light, he just entered, and sat in the chair next to his bed.

"Odd position, considering your attempt to keep me heavily sedated for several days after Jaime Moriarty took John." Sherlock tossed that out casually, looking at Mycroft's face, visible in the moonlight from the window.

"Hmm. So you were awake enough to hear me. I figured as much, after you escaped Anderson."

"An infant could escape Anderson." Sherlock settled back deeper into his pillows, ignoring Mycroft's disapproving expression as he reached out and increased his morphine drip. He'd turn it down once John returned. He needed something to handle the forthcoming conversation. "Hardly the wisest choice in nannies, brother dear."

"Yes, so it would seem." Mycroft was beginning to fidget, and Sherlock tracked his gaze as it settled on the empty futon under the window.

"And how is your DI? I am assuming he is well, since you are here, and not at his side." Sherlock needled his brother, just enough to let the elder know he knew about the burgeoning relationship between them. Mycroft glared, but otherwise ignored the comment. Sherlock tried not to sigh out loud as Mycroft again looked to where Violet had been the last two days.

"Where are your doctor and the intrepid hacker?" Mycroft asked, his tone not as casual as Sherlock knew he would have liked. Mycroft knew it would take something special to get John to leave him, and Violet was most likely with the doctor, given her quick attachment to the man.

"Not here." Sherlock knew his non answer would annoy Mycroft, not caring at all as his older brother glared at him. He knew just the thing to get Mycroft's mind off of where his lover and the girl may be.

"John knows about Sherrinford." Sherlock didn't hesitate. He watched Mycroft's face as his brother processed his words. Mycroft tried to speak, mouth opening, before snapping shut. His fingers began to drum on the arm of his chair, and Sherlock withheld the smile he wanted to let free.

"How does your dear doctor know about Sherrinford?" Mycroft's voice was icy, no emotion present. Sherlock wasn't fazed at all. Especially since he was about to lie to his brother. He knew the source was Mary, but he could not tell Mycroft that.

"My assumption would be Moriarty. Did you miss the files on the tables in the ballroom? An entire dossier on our family was right there in front of you. Strange you didn't see it." Sherlock smirked this time, enjoying the relaxed feeling the morphine was giving him. "Must be slipping in your middle age."

"I didn't have much time to see anything before she blew up the manor." Mycroft snapped at him. "How much does John know?"

"Enough to ask me why I never mentioned our older brother to him." Sherlock knew the next part would be tricky. Their elder brother had been off limits for a very long time. Sherlock had hardly known him, being the youngest. The differences in their ages had been great. Mycroft had known him best, and it had nearly destroyed him too. What he was about to say next might break what restraint Mycroft had left.

"Violet is his daughter." Sherlock was blunt. He ignored the shock on his brother's face, and kept going. "She does not know. She may suspect we are blood, as she and I are very similar. She looks like him, always has. As I look like him. I confirmed it years ago, after I found her at my university."

Mycroft didn't say a word. His face was hard, like stone, and his fingers gripped the arms of his chair so tightly his knuckles were white. Sherlock found himself wondering if he should stop, if he was merely borrowing trouble. They had enjoyed the static quality of their lives for so long, that it felt wrong to disturb how things were. But Sherlock couldn't lie to John, not anymore. He had made a promise, after all. He would keep it.

"What are you going to tell them?" Mycroft asked, his voice choked on some emotion Sherlock couldn't name.

"I will tell them as much as they want to know; as much as I know. What remains to tell will be for you, if you so choose." Sherlock looked to the clock on the wall beside the door. "They should be back any minute, if you wish to be present as I explain things."

"No." Mycroft stood rapidly. His hands were fists, tight and pressed to his thighs. "You do what you want, you always have. I'll not participate in airing out our family laundry."

Sherlock wasn't surprised as Mycroft left the room, strides eating away at the floor, two of his people scurrying as they attempted to catch up. He didn't know what to make of Mycroft's refusal to acknowledge what he had said about Violet being family. Sherrinford was a deep wound, to his parents and to Mycroft. They may not be willing to welcome her.

* * *

><p>Sherlock dozed as he waited for John and Violet to return. He was assuming that John was upset with him. If Mary knew enough about Sherrinford to say something to John, she may know enough to figure out that Violet was Sherlock's niece. He was tired, but determined to get it all out.<p>

_This telling the truth thing is exhausting. I only spoke to Mycroft for a few minutes, and I already feel wretched. It's nearly three in the morning. Why did I never notice before just how ridiculous it was to be up at this hour? _

He must have fallen asleep; he wasn't aware John and Violet were back until he heard someone in the bathroom. John was standing next to his head, those strong fingers of his running through Sherlock's curls.

"Hey, love." John whispered to him, a smile on his face. Sherlock smiled back, foolishly pleased at John's use of the endearment. His doctor's fingers felt wonderful in his hair, and Sherlock tried not to go back sleep.

"I was waiting for you." Sherlock whispered back.

"That's okay. We can talk in the morning. Violet isn't going anywhere, either. Move over, I'm tired."

John kicked off his shoes, and climbed into bed with him. Sherlock wrapped an arm around John, his doctor curling against him on his uninjured side. John was a welcome and pleasant source of heat, of love. Sherlock loved his doctor, and whispered that to him as sleep took him back under.

* * *

><p>Morning was annoying. As was the nurse who was fussing with his morphine drip. She kept glaring at the slumbering doctor stretched out beside him. Sherlock glared right back at her, and she got the hint that he didn't care about her stupid rules, and eventually left.<p>

Sherlock blinked at the sun in his eyes, wishing he was back in his flat, the drapes pulled shut, wrapped around John and sleeping past noon. Getting a case at sunset and solving it by sunrise. Annoying Mrs. Hudson as she left cold tea services everywhere. Maybe even shoot the wall just for old time's sake. He found himself missing things he didn't know he could miss.

He heard the shower in the bathroom, and Violet's empty bed confirmed where she was. He hadn't spoken to her since she dragged John out last night. She wasn't one to get overly emotional, so he wasn't worried about her reaction to his confession. John, though, he would be emotional. His poor doctor. Always feeling everything at once, flashing rapidly from one emotion to another like flames jumped from house to house. But his emotions when it came to Sherlock were very welcome. Addictive, actually.

John stirred, and Sherlock watched as he slowly woke up. His eyes would be blank, unthinking, then he would notice where he was, and who he was with. It made Sherlock's heart race every time he saw John see him after waking. There was no better proof of how the doctor felt about him than in those few seconds. John smiled at him, the gentle, loving, sweet smile he never showed anyone else.

Sherlock leaned in, and kissed his doctor, lingering over the slow heat that simmered inside him as John responded. He really missed his flat right now. Broken ribs be damned, next time he got some alone time with John, he was doing everything he wanted. Everything.

"So cute." Violet sighed from the bathroom door, wearing a long tee and extra short shorts, towel drying her hair. "But I probably shouldn't be thinking that, you being my uncle and all."

John yanked back, looking guilty to be caught making out. Sherlock grinned, and sat up. He was sick of laying down, anyway. Sherlock undid the drip, and slowly stood. John was at his side almost instantly, but Sherlock waved him off, needing to see if he could handle walking on his own. He could, and took a few steps before swallowing his pride and reaching for John.

"Mary let slip the truth, I see." Sherlock said to Violet. "I figured as much after John texted me last night."

She nodded, her eyes looking at him very intently, as if she were looking for signs of her father in him. She would see a lot, as Sherlock was a close copy of his eldest brother. It was Mycroft who took after their mother, but for the eyes. Sherlock and Sherrin had taken after their father.

"I'll tell you everything after I get a shower." Sherlock told her, and he gently nudged John in the direction of the bathroom.

"I'm going to get dressed then, and if I hear sounds of too much fun in there, I'm going to the cafeteria for breakfast." Violet smirked at the look on John's face. "A very long breakfast."

* * *

><p>"Sherlock, behave." John muttered to him, trying to avoid his hands as Sherlock reached for him. The water was hot, and Sherlock wanted company under the spray. John was being obstinate, and was getting his clothes wet as a result. Sherlock saw the bag hanging from the back of the bathroom door, knew John had a change of clothing, and snagged John's wrist.<p>

"Violet left two minutes ago. Come here, John." Sherlock pulled as hard as he could, which wasn't very hard, given his ribs. John's shirt got wet, and his doctor broke down in laughter.

"Fine! Christ, you are stubborn." John was grinning, but his shirt came off, and the rest of his clothes followed. John jumped under the spray, gasping at the heat. And his mouth was on Sherlock's faster than the detective could blink.

Strong, powerful tongue strokes fueled the fire between them. Sherlock dipped his head, and kissed John so deeply he felt his head spin. His doctor tasted wonderful, his wet mouth making Sherlock thirsty for more of him. John was groaning, his hips pressing to Sherlock's, his arousal hardening, encouraging Sherlock's length to harden as well. Sherlock wanted John badly, in any way he could get him. His hand slid down John's chest, rubbing at the firm muscles of his stomach, down to his groin.

Sherlock stopped. John had stilled, his hips jerking back. John's mouth beneath his was pulling away, and his doctor was breathing in rapid, shallow breaths. As if he was scared. He saw John's face. His doctor was terrified.

"John?" Sherlock whispered, bringing his hands back up, curving behind John's shoulders. Sherlock's eyes dropped to the red welts on his doctor's neck, the heat from the shower making them stand out a brilliant scarlet. Sherlock felt his world tip on its axis, his stomach growing cold with fury. Not at John, never at the man he loved. But at the men who had hurt his love, who were dead and burned. Beyond his reach, beyond his ability to torture and maim.

"John, I love you. Tell me what you need. Anything." Sherlock pulled John close, and his heart snapped like thawing ice as John wrapped his arms tightly around him. Sherlock ignored the pain caused by his lover's embrace, and held John under the warm spray.

"I'm so sorry. It's not you." John gasped out, his face pressed to Sherlock's neck. Sherlock suspected that the moisture wasn't all from the water. "I'm sorry, I don't know what happened."

"Don't be sorry." Sherlock kissed John's ear, holding him tightly. "I'm sorry I was so late getting to you."

"No! You saved us, you stopped her. I stopped them. I stopped them! Why do I feel like this? I stopped them!" John cried out, and he pressed his face so hard to Sherlock's shoulder that they feel back against the shower wall. "I stopped them."

"You did, yes you did. You saved yourself." Sherlock murmured to him. "I won't tell you everything is okay. I know it's not. I won't lie to you, and say I understand. I don't. All I will say is that you stopped them, and you freed yourself. You fought back. And you're here with me, and I'll never let that happen to you again. I love you."

John was so tightly pressed to him that the water couldn't get between them, spilling over their shoulders. Sherlock held him back, not caring that John's grip was making his eyes water. Whatever his love needed, he would give.

"He hurt me." The whisper was so low Sherlock feared he didn't hear all of it. He bent his head down, John shivering in his arms despite the heat from the water. "His hand hurt me…. There."

Sherlock fought not to react. He just held John, and let the rage flow out of him with the water. He knew instinctively that getting upset as John told him this would merely make John stop confiding. Sherlock just waited, hoping John would keep going. Hoping that talking about it would help John.

"My hands were tied behind my back." John said, a little louder this time. "I couldn't push him off of me. He had said….Something about…. That since I liked it when my freak of a detective fucked me, I should have a real man fuck me."

Sherlock rubbed his shoulders, pulling John further under the warm water as he shivered. He said nothing, letting his silence be all the encouragement John needed.

"He picked me up, threw me on the table. Crushed my hands." John wasn't lifting his head, letting his forehead rest on Sherlock's strong shoulder. "He opened my belt."

Sherlock felt sick, in his heart, in his stomach. _Oh John. I'm so sorry. _Sherlock had seen the signs at Blackwood Manor, the clues that had lead him to the realization that John had been assaulted. He had assumed that when John didn't react to him removing his belt the day before that he was okay. He just hadn't gone far enough. _I'm sorry. I'm such an idiot._

"I love you." Sherlock whispered, knowing he had nothing more important to say than those words.

"He put his hand down there, grabbed me. Hard. It hurt, it really hurt. I was so fucking scared. So mad….." John said the rest in a rush. His words tripping over themselves, as if saying them made it happen all over again. "I kicked him off of me."

"He came back at me, and he bit me, crushed me, put his hand back on me….. I went limp. Like I had passed out. He pulled back enough….. For me to break his nose." John sounded mad now. Sounded angry. He still held Sherlock tightly, but the broken fear and pain was fading.

"I broke his fucking nose, and rolled off the table. I got free, snapped the restraints. I grabbed a gun from the table, was about to kill the guy with the shotgun when Death's knife landed in his temple. Good thing too. I would have been hit. He fired wide when he died."

"She saved me. Killed the guy I took out like he was a rabbit, and she was a rabid wolf. You saw what was left of him, nothing but ripped meat. She saved me. I know why too." John pulled back, and Sherlock watched his face. He looked tired, but equally wide awake. The storm was passing, for now. "She kept screaming, 'never again in this house.'"

"Never again." John sucked in a deep breath, and he wiped at his face. Sherlock let him pull away, and John reached for the soap. Sherlock smiled slightly as John attacked him with the soap, letting his doctor do what he wanted. Anything to return a smile to his face. "She told me that Blackwood was her childhood home. And she was raped there."

Sherlock didn't know what to say. He had nothing. He let John wash him, and John kept talking, and Sherlock listened. John looked better after every word. He wanted an outlet, and Sherlock had no problem being that ear he seemed to need.

"I felt bad for her. She wasn't born crazy. Which is weird, because if she was born normal, then he was, too." Sherlock knew who 'he' was. John paused, the soap running from his hands to the shower floor. "Something fucking horrible happened in that house, to them. They were just kids, normal kids. And a monster destroyed them."

Sherlock felt cold shiver run down his spine. Monsters came in all shapes. The guise of a father, a mother, a brother. Especially brothers. His own brother had been a monster, too.

John turned him around, his fingers massaging the soap into Sherlock's tense and sore muscles. Sherlock groaned, and felt guilty for enjoying the attention. John didn't stop, his hands drifting over Sherlock's firm ass, his thighs. Sherlock was thankful his body didn't react beyond some gentle tremors. He didn't want to embarrass John, make him uncomfortable.

"I love you, Sherlock." John kissed the back of his shoulder, firm and solid. "Thank you."

"For what?" Sherlock risked the question, hoping he could speak to John now, that it was okay.

"For listening. You're pretty good at it." John sounded surprised. "Usually you're doing all the talking, and I'm trying to catch up. So thank you."

"Um. You're welcome?" Sherlock thought that was the right thing to say. John broke out in laughter, his wet arms circling Sherlock from behind. He laughed into Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock smiled, bringing his hands up to hold John's, where they rested on his stomach. "I love you too, John."

The shower ended fairly soon after that. John relaxed, and appeared not at all bothered that he had poured out his experience to his detective. Sherlock took that as a good sign. That meant he had done the right thing, just letting John talk. Hopefully he had helped. He wasn't sure. But he would keep trying. Anything for John.

John helped him get dressed. Sharing bathroom space was the most natural thing in the world, as if they had been doing it for years. Sherlock was glad to be back in normal clothing, the hospital gowns left a lot to be desired. John refused to let him wear a jacket, and the doctor rolled up his sleeves so his IV site was accessible.

John opened the door for Sherlock, and he knew he wasn't getting out of making a confession. Violet was back. She was dressed, on the futon. And she was tapping away at her laptop, the charging cord wrapped around her foot, and she was swirling it in circles.

"Hey, Uncle Sherlock." Violet said, grabbing a half-eaten bagel from the paper plate beside her hip. "Brought nibbles, on the stand next to your bed. Tea, too."

John threw Sherlock a glance, wondering at her tone. Her words were as normal as she usually got, but she sounded strained. Off key.

"Yes, Violet. I am your uncle." Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the morphine drip. He ignored the insidious voice deep in his soul that whispered he should use it. Just to get past this conversation. He looked back up at the young woman who bore his brother's face, his memory altering her features, wiping away her mother's influence. He saw Sherrinford in her, so clearly, so much so he had to blink away the recollection. And he wondered how Mycroft never saw it. But maybe he had. Denial could strike anyone.

Sherlock grabbed a paper cup, idly looking at the lukewarm tea.

"I won't waste time saying I'm sorry, or making excuses. Foolish sentiment. I'm not certain I would be telling the truth, really." Sherlock ignored John's glare at his words. Violet was like him, she would appreciate his intent, and ignore the words that were inadequate to convey everything he tried to say.

"His name was Sherrinford, the eldest of us. Three sons. My parents started early, having children, but finished their higher education before they had Mycroft. And I came along much later." Sherlock wasn't seeing the hospital room, the girl who watched him silently from the futon. He was seeing those long lost years. She was so close in age to him that is seemed silly to call her his niece.

"Sherrinford was fifteen years older than me. Almost sixteen. Mycroft is my elder by seven years. He had more time with Sherrin than I did. I was still a child when Sherrin fathered you." Sherlock struggled not to tell the story out of order. He shouldn't make this harder to understand. John was quiet, watching him from the chair next to the bed. Violet was still, staring at him so hard he could almost feel the sensation of her gaze on his face.

"He was away at school most of my younger years. I saw him during holidays, but his age was so much greater than mine that we never really got along all that well. He was not safe to be around, anyways." Sherlock took a sip of the warm tea, and made a face at the nasty flavor. He put the cup down, and sat further back on the bed.

John's expression was clouding; Sherlock's words a premonition of doom.

"Sherrin was a sadist. Pets would disappear from neighbor's yards. Children at school would be bullied, harassed. Tormented in tiny ways that destroyed them every time. I spent most of my time with my mother, as I was the youngest. I never liked my brother. Mycroft would follow Sherrin everywhere. He idolized him. So much so, he ignored the vicious streak, the violent tendencies. Sherrin enjoyed making people bleed. If he fought, he would strike for maximum pain, for the most damage. The more someone bled, the happier he got."

"I could tell you dozens of stories of things he did, to me, our parents, Mycroft. Especially Mycroft. But I won't. I can't. Some of those are not mine to tell. Sherrin was our monster." Sherlock sent himself away, deep into his mind palace. He went back to the red house on the fair green hill. Heard the weeping of his mother, his father's shouts. Sherrin's laughter. Redbeard's barks, his final yelp of pain before Sherrin slit his throat. Sherlock flinched at that memory, turning away from it.

"My parents sent him to hospitals, to doctors. He went through therapy, counseling. He knew the systems, the right responses. He would be released, let free in the world. He was in his late teens the first time he murdered someone." Sherlock knew he was being heartless, emotionless. But he had no other way of telling this horrible part of his history. He wasn't even telling all of it. Mycroft would have to tell the rest, if he could.

"He killed the neighbor's daughter. I know he did. I saw the clues, the signs. As did Mycroft. He refused to believe it though, refused to acknowledge the truth. Mycroft refused to believe ill of his revered brother. Sherrin could do no wrong. Not in Mycroft's eyes." Sherlock saw the scene in his mind. Sherrin, a smudge of blood on his hand, the look of satisfaction on his face, the very young Sherlock hiding from the monster wearing his brother's face.

"He would disappear. And every time he did, a girl would die. Pretty ones, ones he liked. The police questioned him about the girls, but they had no evidence. A nasty reputation isn't evidence, after all. No one would listen to me, my deductions. I was small, just a child, too small." Sherlock changed the memory, one of him slightly older, Mycroft angry, sad. "As the years went by, he would disappear more frequently. The longest time he vanished is when he fathered you, Violet."

He heard a tiny indrawn breath, but he was too deep inside his mind to tell who it came from.

"He was a young man then, I was nearly seven. You were born that summer. I never knew you existed, though. Not until I met you at the university." Sherlock came back to the room. Violet was standing just a few feet away from him, her tan face paling. John was looking at her in concern.

"I believe he spared one of his victims. Seduced her, loved her, married her, or kidnapped her. Something made him still the blade. Spare her life. And then there was you. I don't know if he knew about you or not. He never mentioned a child."

"He died when I was fifteen. He died when Mycroft finally caught him. Mycroft killed Sherrin." Sherlock said that last part with a faint grimace, the first time he had ever spoken them to anyone. "He was working with MI6 at this point. Mycroft stopping Sherrin as he did propelled his career. And destroyed what was left of his heart, his emotions."

Sherlock looked at his niece. She had Sherrin's eyes, his face, and his hair. But she had her mother's smile, and the way she talked was not Sherrin. She was the best parts of his brother, none of the bad parts. She had his intelligence, and his ability to function under stress. But not the evil. There was no evil in her.

"There is much I don't know about Sherrinford. I am sorry for that. I remember seeing you at the university the day we met. I was struck by the resemblance. It wasn't until I graduated, and you stayed another two years, that I made the decision to see if you were who I thought you might be. I did a DNA test. The results left me stunned." Sherlock sighed, tired from ripping the memories out from the darkness.

"You are his child. I told no one. Not even you. I didn't know how. What could I say? Your birth father is a dead serial killer, slain by his own brother, who didn't kill your mother for some reason? And I don't know why?" Sherlock risked a glance at Violet. She was still, and pale. She was staring at him like she trying to catch him in a lie. "I found myself thinking that if you didn't ask if we were related, then you didn't want to know, that it wasn't important. I saw you wondering sometimes. But I let you not ask me, and I was thankful."

"I do know why I am telling you now." Sherlock reached out, hoping she wouldn't pull away from him. Her hand was cold, and unresisting. He gently tugged, bringing her in front of him. Her lovely eyes were dry, but her thoughts were chaotic in them, unraveling. "I'm telling you now because John has shown me what a complete idiot I am."

She wasn't expecting that. He saw her react, a tiny twitch near her eyes.

"John has shown me the necessity of saying even the most difficult of things. When I tell him I love him, it is because I do, I must. But a part of me still rebels, unused to such sentiment. But the rewards I get from saying it outweigh the discomfort. I wish I had met him all those years ago. I would have told you all of this sooner." Sherlock pulled her closer. "I would have been capable of saying it."

"I am your family. You are mine. There is a place for you in my heart. Next to John, next to Mycroft. I love you, Violet."

Sherlock waited. He rubbed her hand, pleased when the cold began to leave, warmth coming back into her body. She was so close to him, he could see life coming back into her face, her muscles. He figured she might strike him. Or push him away. Freeze him out, or pretend he had said nothing. He would deserve it all. He was a fool.

Her hug startled him. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her face to his. She shook as sobs wrecked her frame. Tears and laughter. Peals of laughter mixing with sobs. She cried all over him, and laughed as she did it. His arms found her, held her close. He rested his chin on her shoulder, and found himself smiling. His eyes were wet, and he couldn't believe it when a single tear escaped, ran down his face.

John was watching them, a hand pressed tightly to his mouth. John was crying too, tears unnoticed on his cheeks. That sight moved Sherlock as deeply as the weepy laughter of the woman he held.

"I'm gonna have to stop calling you Sexy." She sputtered. "It's a bit weird, now."

Sherlock laughed, and she joined him.

* * *

><p>Mycroft stood in Lestrade's room, watching the DI breathe. Each rise and fall of his chest soothed the maelstrom that was brewing in Mycroft's heart. Greg would live. Mycroft would, too. But living meant dealing with things he thought long dead and buried. Sherrinford. He had been wiped from existence, but for the living legacy that was upstairs with his little brother.<p>

_Violet is Sherrinford's daughter. Not possible. I killed him. Sherrinford died. But she is, I see it. Why didn't I see it before?_

"Sir?" Anthea had escaped her room, standing at his elbow. She was in regular clothing, a short sleeved blouse on to accommodate her sling and cast. Mycroft had been on his way to collect her, to take her home. The repairs to his house were complete enough that he felt comfortable letting her leave the hospital.

He had been drawn to Greg's room, unable to stay away. Watching the DI sleep was calming him down. He had been restless all night thinking about both of his brothers. His little brother was going to be the cause of so much grief, yet Mycroft was thankful he was still around to cause trouble.

"Anthea, dear. I was coming for you." Mycroft murmured, pulling her mobile from his pocket. It had survived being dropped on the stairs during her kidnapping, and he had held on to it since. Mycroft turned from Greg's sleeping form, and gave it to her.

"Oh." She gasped softly, her good hand wrapped tightly around it. "Thank you."

She sounded teary, and Mycroft caught the glimmer of moisture in her eyes. She didn't start crying, which he was thankful for. He didn't know what to do with tears. Especially her tears, as he had never seen her cry. Not even when she thought she was going to die.

"Shall we go?" Mycroft asked her, taking her coat from the back of the chair where he had left it.

"Don't you want to stay with him?" She asked, her green eyes searching his face. "I know you do."

"I….." He was surprised. He didn't know how to respond. He didn't know what to say to her.

"You love him, Mycroft." Anthea shrugged into her coat, as he held it open for her, frozen in shock at her plain statement of fact. "You're in love with him. Stay."

"I… What about you?" Mycroft ignored her comment, knowing as he did that she would take it as confirmation. He was still trying to fathom it.

"Have the car take me home. You've been running the country from this room for the last three days anyway, and I'll feel better knowing you aren't worried about DI Lestrade while you're at home with me." She used her good arm to keep her coat pulled over her sling, her eyes still locked on his face. "Don't feel bad about me. Please don't. I know you care. I want you to be happy, so stay."

"Will you be alright?" Mycroft asked her, his fingers brushing a strand of rich brown hair back from her eyes. What a lovely shade of green, her eyes. He had thought to never see them again.

"I am going to sleep in my own bed, in my home, and I'll be glad to do so. The doctors told me to rest, and I'll resume my normal duties tomorrow. Thankfully, I'm not a field agent." Anthea gave him a tiny smile. "Being your personal assistant has its privileges."

"So it does. And you'll never need worry about losing them, either." Mycroft had no intention of ever losing her again. She was his, and he had yet to analyze what that meant for the two of them, and the man sleeping mere feet away. He would do anything to keep them both.

Mycroft held very still as she came to him, and rose up on her toes. She kissed him, her lips soft on his cheek. He closed his eyes, and breathed in the sweet scent of her perfume. She was real. He opened his eyes as she drew back, and he couldn't stop the smile that spread across his face. She smiled at him, and slowly walked away. She looked at the man still sleeping, and Mycroft had no idea what her expression meant as she left the room.

Two agents followed behind her. He set them to watch over her, and he knew she wouldn't argue about their presence. She would send them away once she felt them unnecessary. She knew they were there more for his peace of mind than hers.

He went to the small desk in the corner of Greg's room. He grabbed his bag, pulling out his laptop as he did so. Mycroft had set up this space not long after Greg woke up the first time. Anthea had been right; he had been running the country from this small desk for the past three days. And he would continue to do so until the Prime Minister or Her Majesty bid him leave.

Mycroft went to work, facing the DI as he slept on. Mycroft wanted to be there the instant he woke up. He wanted to see the look Greg had given him after he woke up that first time. He was certain it was the most important expression he had ever seen in his life.

Mycroft pulled up the reports from his people and Scotland Yard. As of yet, there was no sign of the woman known as Mary Morstan. Some of his people were theorizing she had died in the explosion. Or that she was already out of the country. Mycroft had a feeling she was still here. She was still in London, somewhere.

Sherlock had come to the conclusion that she had been responsible for bombing CAM Tower, and the death of Magnussen. There was no proof whatsoever that she had done it, but the timing and the connections made it unlikely that she wasn't involved. She was involved with Jaime Moriarty. Her participation in Sherlock's ambush, and her assault on his brother were irrefutable.

Anthea had told him that Mary had spared her life, and the life of Moriarty's two other hostages. Mycroft didn't know what to make of that. She had been willing to participate in Moriarty's plans, even negotiating her own terms. Then, according to what he had gotten from Violet, and Anthea, she had radically changed her position, and helped Sherlock stop Moriarty. Mycroft had a feeling Anthea knew why, but she wasn't forthcoming. He was loathing pressuring her into telling him. She had been through too much. She would tell him if it was important. That is, if he didn't figure it out first.

But Morstan's reasons for flipping allegiances were irrelevant until he found her. He would have plenty of time to ask all the questions he wanted once she was in custody. The CIA had been in contact, inquiring as to the status of their rogue agent. He had replied that her whereabouts were currently unknown. Mycroft had a suspicion that his reply did not sit well with his American counterpart, and that the CIA would get involved in the search directly if she wasn't found soon.

He opened another report, this one concerning Blackwood Manor. No bodies had been recovered. He wasn't surprised. The explosion had been massive, and the resulting fire hotter than anything he had been expecting. There would be no proof of Jaime Moriarty's death, other than the assurances he could provide that she had been locked in that cell mere minutes before the manor was destroyed. No one could have escaped. Not even a Moriarty.

Mycroft did his best to ignore the thread of unease that was worming its way through his gut. He would have felt better if he had a cold corpse as proof, instead of ashes.

* * *

><p>Violet was pretending to still be asleep on the futon as Sherlock argued with the 'idiot doctor, no not you, John!' Sherlock's hospital doctor was clearly fed up with the consulting detective's behavior. Apparently he wasn't supposed to be fiddling with his morphine like he had been. And John sleeping with him wasn't 'helping' his recovery. Bed rest to this doctor actually meant rest, not snuggling.<p>

Violet smirked, and covered her mouth with her blanket as John got red in the face. John had given up trying to calm Sherlock down. He was sitting in the chair next to Sherlock's bed, a hand covering half of his face as he struggled not to laugh. He knew what his detective was doing. Sherlock was being as obnoxious as possible so he could get discharged early. Violet didn't see it happening, regardless of Sherlock's determination.

It was the day after Sherlock's revelations, and the early morning light was streaking in the room across the floor. She was shaded under the window itself, the sill blocking most of the light. They had only been here for four or five days, and Sherlock was meant to be in the hospital for at least another week. John had tried to see about getting Sherlock discharged to his care, but someone (Mycroft) had beat him to it, making sure Sherlock would not be allowed to leave until his lung had healed more.

Sherlock had lacerated it severely, and it was a miracle his lung hadn't collapsed. The internal bleeding had stopped, but any strenuous activity could reopen the injury. Like going home to Baker Street, and taking the inevitable case that came his way. Which it would. His email was flooded, thanks to John.

John had borrowed Violet's laptop, and updated his blog. It was a very good thing that this hospital had an overabundance of security, as the press was literally camping in the parking lots. John hadn't mentioned Mary, but everything else was out in the world now. He had left her out too. Not that she minded. All of her hacking and research had been under Sherlock's direction, so he should get the credit. Violet had stopped MI6 from crashing John's blog, as he wasn't 'authorized' to be disclosing 'classified' information.

_Fuck that! Sherlock, John, and Mary saved London. And me, but I'm not in the blog, thankfully. Admittedly, Mary did help wreck it too. But she wasn't mentioned, so the rest of it is fair game. Shame on Mycroft for trying to cover it all up. Though John's blog isn't really 'sanctioned' so the government can deny all of it as they see fit. Not that the world believes them._

She knew Mycroft was furious, especially at her. She had protected John's site long enough that enough people saw it, shared it, and linked it. Once that happened, there was no point in crashing the site. They might have had a chance at stopping the truth from getting out if she hadn't been around.

The whole world now knew the name of Jaime Moriarty. Some might even say she had eclipsed her brother. In many ways, it was too bad that she was dead. She might have appreciated her celebrity.

One of the pluses of John's blog was that everyone knew that DI Lestrade had nearly died saving St Bart's from exploding. There were people petitioning for him to receive promotions, commendations, and so much more she couldn't remember. Mycroft couldn't complain about that, surely. Though he probably was. Lestrade was able to stay awake for longer periods now, and she had snuck down late last night, to see Mycroft sitting at his bedside, holding his hand.

Anthea was supposedly at home. Where she lived with Mycroft. That had made Violet's eyes twitch. A sexy woman lived with Mycroft? She had shrugged, and went down to raid the cafeteria. He had seen her in the doorway, but he didn't acknowledge her at all. Before, he would have glared, or made shooing motions with his hand. But now, after Sherlock had told him who she was, Mycroft just stared right through her. She didn't mind that much. Mycroft had never meant as much to her as Sherlock. She didn't see that changing anytime soon.

The hospital doctor threw up his hands, and stormed from the room. She hadn't been paying attention, so she didn't know what got him upset enough to leave.

"What's his problem?" Violet mumbled, tossing off the blanket. She sat up, and shook out her hair.

"He didn't appreciate my observations about his penchant for wearing women's undergarments." Sherlock smirked from the bed. He was wearing regular clothes again, but this was his last set. She would either have to get his clothes dry cleaned, or run back to Baker Street.

"Eeeeeeeeew." Violet crinkled her nose at the thought of the fifty something, overweight, and rude doctor wearing lingerie. If he wanted to, that's cool, but the visual was disturbing. "Please do not tell me how you know."

Sherlock opened his mouth to tell her anyway, and she threw her pillow at him. He caught it, a huge grin on his face.

"Hey now kids, none of that." John warned them, but he had a smile on his face too. John was smiling at her, and she caught the sideways glance he sent to Sherlock. As if they were silently talking about her.

"What?" She demanded, hopping off the futon. She was wearing nothing but her super short daisy dukes, and a t-shirt that was long enough to be a dress. She was running out of clothing too. _Shopping! Sweet! If the stores are open…. Ugh._

John got pink on his cheeks, and studiously looked away. She found that hilarious. Yesterday he would have looked just fine, and appreciated the sight. But today, she could see she was clearly labeled under 'Sherlock's niece, NO looking'. Violet snickered, and met Sherlock's eyes. He was amused at his doctor too.

"Well, c'mon! Don't hold out on me, that look meant something." Violet crossed her arms over her chest, glaring good naturedly at the doctor and her uncle._ Uncle! So weird. But nice._

"Sherlock wants you to move in with us." John blurted it out. "And me too."

Violet felt her face go slack with surprise. She had been planning on just moving in, not asking, just doing. She hadn't expected an invitation. Especially since they were both so clearly still in the 'let's have sex all the time because our relationship is new and super-hot' stage. Not that them having sex bothered her at all, she just knew people tended to ignore everyone else while at that stage.

John looked nervous she hadn't responded, and he hurried to convince her.

"There's the spare bedroom upstairs. I'm not using it anymore. You would be welcome." John bit his lip, and sent another look to his lover. "Unless you were planning on leaving. Sherlock said you moved around a lot."

Violet blinked, and pretended she had an eyelash in her eye, wiping away the tiny bit of moisture that threatened to betray her. Sherlock was quiet, his eyes tracing her every move. She couldn't read his expression.

"Look, if it makes you uncomfortable, never mind, it's okay, really….." John didn't get to finish that sentence before she was sitting in his lap, hugging him tightly around the neck. He exhaled as she settled in, and she didn't care that he had no idea with what to do with his arms. She hugged Sherlock's doctor, and kissed him on the cheek.

"You're sweet, John." She pulled back, and laughed at the deep red blush on his face. "And I know you want me there for Sherlock, and he wants me there so he can keep an eye on me. He's not slow, he knows why I'm hanging around. Well, one of the reasons."

She kissed John smack on the lips, and got up. Sherlock was blinking at John's very red face, but the doctor was smiling, so she knew he enjoyed himself. She backed up, and tossed a look between the two men. John was gaping at her, before he lowered his brow and turned on Sherlock.

"What does she mean, you know the real reason she's hanging around?" John asked Sherlock. Violet disappeared into the bathroom, leaving her uncle to explain just what it meant to have Violet Hunter as a flat mate. Or should it be Violet Holmes now?

* * *

><p>Sherlock had thoroughly enjoyed, and been slightly confused by, John's reaction to Violet this morning. Poor John. He had no problem admiring her when she wasn't related to Sherlock, but the second he learned she was, she was suddenly a new and terrifying creature. Sherlock was wondering why John was blushing furiously, but his doctor still managed to glower at him.<p>

"Violet is a hacker, John." Sherlock stated the obvious, hoping he wouldn't have to drag this out.

"Yeeeessss, I know." John gave him a look that said he might need to elaborate. Sherlock sighed, and dropped his head on his pillow.

"Everything about her chosen profession is illegal, in every country she frequents." Sherlock looked at John, hoping he'd connect the dots. No such luck.

"Violet is still here, even though you've been rescued, and I'm no longer on the lamb, because she needs protection." Sherlock watched as John's face drained of color, and went glacial. John Watson was an admirable man. Quite willing to save a damsel in distress. No matter who she was.

"Who's after her?" John's voice was lower, and Sherlock tried his best not to grin at the protective look on his face.

"Everyone, I suspect. She is literally the best in the world, John." Sherlock wasn't bragging. He didn't brag about anyone except himself. Violet was exceptional at what she did. "Violet will occasionally acquire admirers, zealous fans who want more than she's willing to provide. Clients, who hire her for jobs, then decide it's easier to kill her than to pay her. She has enough enemies, and nations, after her for a variety of reasons. This time the attention is too much, so she's hiding under the nebulous protection of knowing me, and through me, Mycroft and MI6. No one will bother her while she's with us."

"What? How often does she use you guys for cover?" John was surprised, and he turned to glare at the bathroom door.

"John." Sherlock smiled as John dragged his attention from the closed door, and back to him. "It's not a problem. She hasn't used me for cover in several years, so I suspect it has something to do with recent events. Most likely her current trouble occurred when she hacked the CIA, when we asked for her help. You do recall how upset she was when she realized what we were asking?"

John nodded, and his face went from indignation to guilt.

"I suspect she was currently avoiding the attentions of the American government at the time, and our request merely intensified their scrutiny. She doesn't leave clues as to her identity, she is that skilled. Yet conversely, it is her skill level that identifies her. No one is as good as she is, so when the impossible happens, the probability is in favor of Violet being behind it."

"She was most likely going to cash in the favors we owe her for her assistance by staying with us until it was safe for her to leave." Sherlock heard the shower turn on in the bathroom, and he knew Violet approved of how he was filling in John. Of course she had been listening the whole time.

"The reality of our relationships changes the dynamic, but does nothing to negate the necessity of her staying with us, for her sake. Now all we need to do is a bit of sweeping, and I can…. We can go home."

He tried his best not to let that last bit come out in pathetic whine, but he knew he failed miserably when John got up, and kissed him. It was very nice kiss, and Sherlock planned on doing some more whining if that was the result.

"We get the flat clean, you heal up some more, and then we can all go home."

* * *

><p>The hill top was still smoldering. Days after the explosion, after the fire devoured Blackwood Manor, the remaining rubble was still hot, smoke furling in the still night air. The site was closed off, the investigators done with the scene, but restricted from the general public. So if someone saw the lone figure walking through the soot stained grass, they might have assumed it was someone who was allowed to be there. Some fanciful people might even call it a ghost, a wraith born of misery and fire. In many ways, it was the only soul with the most valid claim to be on these haunted grounds.<p>

Slim, shrouded in a long black coat, and walking with an easy, elegant stride, the lonesome figure paused beneath the remaining section of wall. It was half a story tall, and contained the void of a window frame. It was the window to the old manor's private study, a window that now looked out at nothing. There was nothing left of the misery, the pain, the horror that had once echoed off the stone walls. It was all gone. All the ghosts once trapped in this house were now free.

The shrouded wraith took one last look, before turning away. The coat opened just enough for the moon to catch on the long silver blade strapped to a muscular thigh.

This ghost was free as well, determined to never return. Free to fade away in the night air, dreaming of new possibilities.


	36. Epilogue of Part One

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**Warning: Heavy on the feels. **

**No worries, the story isn't over! Part Two will begin on the next chapter. Just wait until you see the new villain. I love writing the baddies.**

**Enjoy!**

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirty Six<strong>

_**Epilogue of Part One**_

Sherlock was fidgeting. He knew it, John knew it, and Sherlock's niece knew it. He was being fairly annoying, but not a single part of his body cared. He was going home, after nearly two weeks in the hospital.

Baker Street was repaired. John had supervised between spending his days at the clinic, and his nights in the hospital with Sherlock and Violet. The weekends had seen Sherlock's dear doctor covered in dust as he cleaned up the flat, organizing repair crews and wielding a hammer as often as the hired men. Moving Sherlock back in was easy, as the man didn't care about the state of the flat, but Sherlock knew John had tried so hard because of Violet.

John could do nothing about the ruined building across the street from their flat. The city was cleaning itself up fairly quickly in the wake of Jaime Moriarty's rampage of grief. There was little left in the streets of the damage caused, just vacant lots where buildings had once stood. The historical places, like the Tower and the Old Bailey, had withstood the explosions far better than the more modern buildings. The Tower had just shrugged off the fires, and was quickly on its way to being fully restored.

The total number of lives lost to the bombings was not as high as it could have been. Had Violet and Sherlock not warned MI6 of the imminent explosions, and sent out the list of potential targets, thousands of people could have died. For all that there was only a ten minute warning, those ten minutes meant the difference between all lives lost, and the couple hundred that fell instead. The casualties were still staggering, and London would not heal anytime soon. The wrath of the Moriarty clan had scarred London deeply, and it was a blessing in some ways that Jaime Moriarty and her brother were now past all reach. She especially would have found no mercy behind bars. No mercy in the legal system of the country she had nearly burned to the ground.

MI6 was still hunting Mary, but Sherlock and Violet were monitoring their lack of progress in finding her. Mycroft would occasionally send people to tail John, under the correct assumption that if anyone knew, it would be her former lover; but his doctor was careful, and had yet to betray Mary's location by making mistakes. Sherlock could not tell if Anthea had revealed to Mycroft that Mary was pregnant. John was determined to keep Mary safe, for her sake, as well as their unborn child's. John and Mary were attempting to get to a point where they weren't shouting at each other at every meeting, and Sherlock had no worries that they might reconcile. The expression on John's face when he came back to his detective gave Sherlock all the evidence he needed to feel secure in his doctor's love.

Sherlock settled in his seat in the back of the cab, and cast a glance at his niece. She was absorbed in her mobile, her thumb scrolling through something so fast that the average soul might think she wasn't reading any of it. Sherlock knew better. He did the same thing. She saw every word.

His niece had agreed to live with them, and Sherlock knew John was hoping she meant longer than the few weeks it would take for the pressure to be off of her. John wanted Sherlock to have family around that wasn't divisive, that didn't use him as unpaid labor in solving crimes Mycroft was too lazy to deal with himself. Sherlock had heard John tell Violet (while they thought him sleeping) that it was a pleasant surprise to meet a Holmes that didn't automatically make Sherlock go on the defensive. Sherlock felt an odd sensation in his chest when he heard Violet reply to John that Sherlock already had that, in the doctor. John was his family already. He had always been.

Mycroft refused to talk to her, and every time Violet saw him in the halls of St Bart's, he would act as if she didn't exist. Sherlock saw the annoyance his brother's behavior generated in their niece, but she had yet to voice a complaint. Discovering they were family hadn't improved their attitudes towards each other. While Violet may have been fond of Mycroft before, the MI6 man was doing his best to erode that regard away. She ignored him right back, and made her preference for Sherlock clear. Sherlock had told his parents about her, but Sherrinford had left deep wounds on his parent's hearts, and had yet to reach out to their only grandchild. Sherlock knew better than to push it. If they wanted to know her, they knew where she was. Sherlock had claimed her as his niece in front of the world, and he was content to be whatever level of family she needed. If he was to be it, then he would be the best uncle he could.

She needled her eldest uncle by becoming friends with Lestrade, refusing to leave the DI's room if Mycroft happened by at the same time. She had charmed the DI easily, and it was most likely due to the fact that she was Sherlock's niece. Everyone treated her with a combination of reference, disbelief, and skepticism when John started telling people who she was. She just smiled, and didn't elaborate on where she came from. People liked it better when they could make up her back story for themselves. If it wasn't for the fact that they were so obviously close in age, Sherlock didn't doubt that many would speculate that Violet was his daughter. If she were ten years younger, she would look like it.

Anderson in particular had become entranced by her, the one time he had spied her in the halls of St Bart's. He had been in to visit Lestrade, and caught her leaving the DI's room. The rumors had already spread, so even that humble soul was able to deduce who she was. Sherlock sighed, knowing that he would have to contend with Anderson following Violet around just as often as he followed Sherlock.

Violet had stayed at the hospital with him the entire time, leaving only with John. She would go on supply runs for Mary, or shopping for herself and Sherlock when they got low on clothing. John had borne up under it well, and Sherlock saw the very deep affection growing in John's heart for the newly revealed Holmes scion. She teased him mercilessly, and Sherlock enjoyed the faint blush that would grace John's cheeks when she did something particularly scandalous. The private suite at the hospital had taken on the air of a dorm room, and Sherlock grinned as he remembered the relief on the nurses' faces as they had left earlier that day.

The press had gotten word that he was being released, and it had taken Sergeant Donovan and a small group of police officers to clear a way out of the hospital to the cab. There had been no shortage of helping hands in carrying Violet's bags either. Sherlock smirked, as her appeal to the male sex was hilarious to him. He saw her beauty, but to him, she was just Violet.

The police were following behind, keeping the most persistent of reporters at bay. Sherlock looked over his shoulder, rolling his eyes at the lines of reporters following them to Baker Street. Donovan had sent patrol cars ahead to their flat, making sure no one got too close.

"So what's up with the betting books in this country? And did you guys know your odds are skyrocketing for having a spring wedding?" Violet didn't even look up from her mobile as John coughed in surprise. "You better tell me when you're tying the knot so I can make a killing on this."

"Ugh…." John groaned, and fell back against his seat, leaning on Sherlock's shoulder. "We've been together for a month! Less than a month. Wow."

"Don't worry, Violet. I'll tell you. Make sure you split the winnings with me." Sherlock winked at his niece as John's jaw dropped. His doctor was staring at him so hard Sherlock started laughing, looking at John out of the corner of his eye.

"Don't you think there should be some talking about this?" John stuttered, his face alternating between gloriously happy, highly skeptical, and utterly confused.

"Hmmm. While I consider marriage to be rather ridiculous, I am well aware of the limitations of our current arrangement. Unless we sign dozens of papers, and jump through numerous legal hoops, we can never have the same level of control over the other partner's fate in the case of an emergency like we would if we just signed a marriage certificate. Considering the number of times I had to scold the doctors at St Bart's to make them tell you what you wanted to know about my recovery, marriage is rather prudent." Sherlock droned on, watching as John's face turned into a lovely mix of exasperation, confusion, and annoyance. He would fix all of that. "Especially considering our partnership. Solving crimes, chasing murderers, all that."

"But seeing as I love you, and I have no issue telling the universe that by marrying you, I will most assuredly say 'Yes', if you ever feel the desire to propose. But if you choose not to, I shall be content to spend my life at your side anyway." Sherlock leaned in to John as he said that last part, dropping a quick kiss on his doctor's lips. "I believe that's what is called a 'pressure free' proposal."

"I…. Sherlock!" John kissed him back, and Violet broke down into giggles. "I love you."

The cab slowed to a stop in front of Baker Street, and Sherlock saw the diminutive form of Mrs. Hudson waiting anxiously on the front step. Sherlock flew out of the cab as it stopped, leaving John to pay the fare. The police escort had closed the street, so Sherlock was able to ignore the flashes of cameras from the corners. Mrs. Hudson hugged him tightly, and Sherlock was glad she wasn't that strong. His ribs were better, but he was reminded on a daily basis that he wasn't going to be healing fast this time.

"My boys! Home at last!" She pulled back, and she squinted at his face, no doubt thinking of all the biscuits she would have to feed him to get him to put some weight back on. Hospital food was atrocious, and Violet hadn't let him have a single gelatin. "And where is my lovely girl?"

Violet stood back next to the cab, supervising the cops who had volunteered to help her with her luggage. Sherlock rolled his eyes. She had every one of Lestrade's people thoroughly infatuated.

Violet heard Mrs. Hudson, and she came over, letting the older woman fuss over her. Sherlock was bemused by the level of enjoyment that Mrs. Hudson displayed at seeing Violet. When John had told her that Violet existed, she had promptly demanded to be introduced. Their landlady had taken to Sherlock's niece as if she were the older woman's own granddaughter. Violet just soaked up the attention. Sherlock felt the faint stirrings of guilt, knowing that if he had spoken up years earlier, Violet wouldn't have been alone. He wouldn't have been alone.

They eventually all detangled themselves from the curb, and Sherlock grumbled as John held the back of his coat to keep him from leaping up the stairs to his flat. Their flat. He was never happier to be home. With the exception of that first day with John, when his doctor told him he loved him, and gave him his first kiss.

"Finally!" Sherlock tossed his coat, not seeing where it landed. He fell into his armchair, and groaned as the familiar seat pulled him in.

John picked up his coat from the floor, hanging their coats up behind the door. Violet threw herself on the couch, her laptop appearing from nowhere, already engrossed in whatever dubious activity she was up to. She was searching for something within the government's systems, something she was calling 'impossible'. And for Violet Hunter to call something impossible, then it must truly be amazing. Sherlock was waiting to see if she would need him. She had her talents, and she hadn't reached the point where she was needing help. So he watched, and waited.

She hadn't spoken of her father to him at all. She had only said that she had met him once, when she was very small, just under two years of age. She barely remembered him, and her mother had raised her alone, as far from him as she could get them. That had meant taking Violet to the United States, and raising her child under her maiden name. Violet had said her mother was married to her father, but she had no proof other than her mother's word. The only name Violet had for her father had been Ford. Sherlock had done his best not to react. Ford, short for Sherrinford.

Violet's mother had died when she was thirteen, and Violet escaped from the custody of child services. She had already been a highly skilled hacker and programmer by this point, and she erased herself from all public records, disappearing into the cities of America. One more child runaway invisible on the streets. She hadn't gone to England, and met Sherlock, until she was fifteen. She hadn't told him anything of her life in those two years. But from the shadows in her eyes, and the way she held herself, Sherlock knew, he knew, that it hadn't been pleasant.

John sat in his red chair, and Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen, making tea. John had his mobile out, and he was scrolling through Sherlock's email, his face clearly showing when he found something interesting. Sherlock was anxious for a case. And he had tasked John with finding the least boring one out of the hundreds in his mailbox.

Sherlock looked around his flat, watching the people in his life exist as they had always done. But this time he was seeing them differently. As if they were there for the first time, bright and shiny and new. In a way, they were. Sherlock had opened his heart to love, let John strengthen and re-forge his heart. The focus, control, clarity that John gave him was ever expanding. And the love John showed him was empowering. So he saw everything new through John. Because of him.

Sherlock Holmes was a man reborn. Pulled from the ashes of grief and loneliness, he had everything he needed and wanted in this life. Everything to protect, cherish. A lifetime ahead of him to deduce the miracles of his doctor's heart, and his own.

And the second John found him a new case, he would dare to say his life was perfect.

_**End of Book One**_

_**The fires of revenge might be out, but that doesn't mean they're safe now….. **_

_**Book Two begins in the next chapter. **_

_**Autumn is over, and blood will fall on Christmas snow.**_


	37. Part II- The First Snowfall

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**Warning: Violence, sex, and some super hot shower scenes. And some scary parts too.**

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><p><strong>Part Two<strong>

**Chapter Thirty Seven**

"_**The First Snowfall"**_

(December, two weeks after the End of Part One)

"Sherlock!" John shouted down the hall. "Why does it look like the breakfast table was used as a funeral pyre?"

John stared down in disbelief at the burnt and battered table. This table had survived almost everything, from swords, experiments, heavy snogging sessions, and numerous breakfasts with two Holmes family members. But this morning, as John stumbled out of bed, where he had been resting peacefully in the arms of his detective, and gone to make tea, he saw the disaster. The table was bare, but the entire surface was charred, the center of which was burnt nearly all the way through.

"Oh my God, why is there shouting?" Violet mumbled as she groggily made her way to the kitchen from her room upstairs. She didn't even blink at the remains of the table, just walked past John to start making coffee. She was wearing her usual amount of sleepwear, which translated to tiny shorts and that long tee she favored. John had stopped blushing about a week ago.

"I'm shouting because your uncle decided to burn our kitchen to the ground." John groused as he reached for his travel mug, pouring his tea. "Don't know how he did that without me noticing."

"Huh?" Violet leaned against the counter, and pushed her raven dark hair out of her eyes. "Oh, wow."

She blinked her purple eyes at the table, and John threw his hands up in exasperation as a giant grin spread across her features.

"Uncle Sherlock that is some crazy shit! Show me how you did that, please." Violet said to the detective as he made his way into the kitchen. John's shout had dragged him out of bed, hours before he usually saw the sun. Sherlock didn't respond, just stole the nearest cup of warm liquid on the counter, and walked back to his bedroom. Sherlock didn't even speak, letting the slamming of his door communicate his displeasure at being woken up at the insane hour of seven in the morning.

"He's nuts." John said, pouring himself some more tea, and grabbing a handful of biscuits. He chewed thoughtfully, wondering if he would have time this afternoon to go shopping for a new table after work.

"You're the one sleeping with him. That means you're nuts too." Violet smirked good naturedly at him, and she giggled at the look on his face. "Go to work John, I'll keep Sherlock occupied."

"Just don't piss off too many foreign governments while I'm gone, having the flat bugged once a month is enough." John said as he went to take his shower.

Violet had more than made herself welcome when she had moved in two weeks ago. The first thing the hacker had done was sweep the entirety of the Baker Street flats. From the basement flat all the way to the roof which could only be accessed through a small hatch in the upstairs hall. To John's shock, she had neatly exorcised from their hidden nests over a dozen tiny microphones and cameras. She had 'killed' every one of them, pouring them out into John's hands like they were tiny black pebbles. Some were obviously newer than others, and a few had the look that they had been in place for years.

Sherlock had gotten an unreadable expression on his face, and John felt an unpleasant mix of anger and violation. He had asked her if she could identify them, but before she could answer, Sherlock had spoken up. "MI6 and the CIA." John had choked back his rage, and Violet had nodded in confirmation.

"Most of these are old, out of date. Been here for three to four years. Most likely around the same time you two first moved in here." Violet had picked up the tiniest of the lot, and stared hard at it as it rested on her fingertip. "This one is new. Very new, most likely installed by one of the repair guys you had in here fixing up the flat."

John had given them back to Violet at her insistence, claiming she could salvage them, and use them to their advantage in the future. John had wanted to crush them under his foot, but she just gave him a look that clearly said that was a silly idea. She really was a Holmes, to give him that look.

Violet had also given John a very big shock. Sherlock's niece was wealthy. Wealthier than he had thought she might be. He had the suspicion that being a hacker must be lucrative, as otherwise the risks of being caught would be too high. She had handed him a brown paper sack the morning after she moved in, and he had choked at the amount of money he spilled out of it. She just picked up all the notes, and dropped them back in the bag. The only thing she had said was that it was rent money. John had counted it, and still felt shock at the amount. She had given him what equaled out to be two years' worth of rent. In a brown paper sack. He felt like he shouldn't take it, until she leveled a glare at him that made him swallow nervously and say thank you.

John turned on the shower, his hand under the spray until it got hot. He looked to the door that led to their bedroom, but he could see no sign of Sherlock being up and about through the cloudy planes of glass. The detective had most likely gone right back to sleep. He stripped down, pulling shut the curtain as he got in. The hot water felt great, and he just let it run over his shoulders, hands braced on the shower wall. He was still partly asleep himself, so he didn't notice when the shower curtain opened.

He noticed he wasn't alone when he felt a soft kiss on the nape of his neck. Long fingered, strong hands slipped around his torso, and he felt his lover press along his back, chest to thighs. John said nothing, just pressed himself back, letting a hand rise up behind him, burying it in Sherlock's soft curls.

"Morning." Sherlock nibbled his ear, breath teasing his neck. John shivered despite the heat from the water, and he felt Sherlock grow hard against his lower back.

"Awake now, I see." John gasped as Sherlock slipped a hand down his side, grabbing his hip, massaging. "Thought you went back to bed."

"Couldn't sleep, too horny." Sherlock grumbled in his ear, and John laughed quietly. "You weren't there."

"Didn't get enough last night?" John closed his eyes, head falling back on Sherlock's shoulder as his lover's hands wandered down, gently grabbing him, and stroking his cock. Sherlock found that special place behind his ear, teeth and tongue nibbling and licking.

Sherlock sucked on his neck, and John didn't care if his lover left a mark. John shuddered as Sherlock got him hard, fingers knowing exactly what he liked.

"I'm an addict, John." Sherlock whispered in his ear, voice deep and sexy and making John feel like he was on fire. "I'm addicted to you. I'll never get enough of you."

The surge of lust that John felt at those words staggered him, and he groaned, writhing in Sherlock's arms. He tried to turn, but the taller man held him fast. John was so aroused he was having trouble seeing, breathing. Sherlock was hard, his arousal nudging at him, distracting him. Sherlock's hands on his cock were teasing him, keeping the rhythm just under the beat John would have liked.

"Sherlock, I want you." John gasped out, hands tugging at Sherlock's.

"Lean over." Sherlock ordered him, and John swallowed a cry in his throat. He was so eager he didn't even think, just slammed his hands on the shower wall, feeling Sherlock grasp his hips, pulling him back.

The water was running down his back, following his spine, pouring over his buttocks. Sherlock's fingers played in the water, dipping lower to his ass. John groaned, incapable of words. He was panting, head down, legs and arms shaking in need. John wanted to cry, so overwhelmed was he by what he was feeling. There was nothing left of the educated doctor, the veteran soldier, the caring best friend. John Watson was nothing but a quivering, aching, shivering storm of fire and lightning. Flashes of desire burned in him, responding to the caresses his lover was giving him.

Sherlock's fingers pressed lightly on his ass, and John desperately wanted him to push harder. Sherlock put a hand on his hip, restraining him from thrusting back against his lover's hand. Two fingers pushed, the water running right over the most sensitive place, and John shook. His whole body shook, and Sherlock rubbed his hip, soothing him. Those fingers kept pushing, the warm water easing their entrance. Sherlock pressed deep, not giving John time to adapt, stretching him, pushing in all the way.

John groaned, loudly, gasping for air. He couldn't speak. The pressure, the stretching sensation robbed him of thought. Sherlock slowly, maniacally, spread his fingers apart, opening John. The warm water from the shower flowed over Sherlock's fingers, the heat new and different, making John jump. Sherlock slowly pulled his fingers out, keeping them spread as he did, and John bit his lip to keep from screaming at how wonderful, how amazing it felt. He figured he was crying, but he couldn't feel the tears past the water running down every part of him. He didn't care, all he wanted was for Sherlock to be in him.

His detective read his mind. John's soft gasps were telling him all he needed to know about how ready John was.

When Sherlock finally positioned himself, taking John so slowly he thought he would die, John was lost. Lost completely in every touch, sensation. Sherlock had him in every possible way. Hard, so hard, and so unbelievably hot, Sherlock pushed until he seated his long length fully in John's ass. The doctor sobbed out a breath, shaking so violently he felt like he might collapse to the floor. Sherlock wrapped a strong arm around him at his waist, not moving. He was throbbing, buried deep. Nudging at John's core, and he clenched up in response. He was so tight, he pulled a groan at last from Sherlock, digging at the detective's control.

Sherlock leaned over him, and his free hand slid up his back, along his shoulder, and down his arm, to his hand as it pressed to the wall, where he twined their fingers together. Sherlock was over him, around him, deep inside of him. Everywhere.

When Sherlock finally began to move, John almost came all over their feet. That initial stroke felt like the very first, everything new and raw and wonderful. John cried quietly, so helpless in Sherlock's control. His detective pulled back, almost leaving his body completely, the head of his cock stretching his entrance. He held still for a heartbeat, before slowly pushing back in. John groaned, and gave up trying to increase the pace.

Sherlock was in control, thoroughly dominating him. John surrendered, and focused on what his lover was making him feel. Focused on how his weight felt on his back, how that strong, lean arm held him up and captive all at once, how his breath was ragged in John's ear, belaying his seemingly perfect control. Sherlock's fingers gripped his tightly, hardest as he seated himself fully back into John.

Sherlock kept that slow, deep pace. Again and again he took John, the water spilling over them both, falling from their straining bodies in tiny waterfalls. Each thrust was perfection, John crying softly, so willing to be helpless to the passion between them. Sherlock was swelling in him, larger and harder with every thrust. John cried out in encouragement as Sherlock increased his pace, needing the climax that was so very close.

The arm that Sherlock had wrapped around his waist moved, his hand grasping John's cock in a tight grip. He stroked John as he thrust faster, harder. So deeply John moaned as pleasure melded with pain. Sherlock moved faster, crying out with John in unison.

John erupted, coming hard as Sherlock hit that spot deep inside of him. John screamed, his shout bouncing off the tiles in the shower stall. He clenched around Sherlock, so tightly that he stopped Sherlock's thrusts, catching him deep inside, his full length swallowed by John's body. His climax triggered Sherlock's, and both men came together, crying out loudly in release.

John spilled himself out on the floor of the shower, the warm water washing his seed away, as Sherlock pumped himself in John's ass, the thick white wet heat making John sob at every burst. Sherlock was holding onto him, and his detective collapsed on John's back. Their combined weight made them fall against the shower wall, Sherlock still buried to the hilt in his doctor.

The water was still warm, falling over them. John was panting hard, shaking as rolling tremors of pleasure swarmed over his whole body. Sherlock had buried his face in John's shoulder, and John had the feeling Sherlock had bit him at some point during his orgasm. John didn't mind at all, part of him thinking past the orgasm that he wished he could see it.

They stood like that for the longest time, and John moaned lightly as Sherlock finally found the strength to move, pulling gently out of John. The doctor was finally able to turn, and he wrapped his arms around his lover's neck. Sherlock looked really sleepy now, eyes hooded and his face flushed. His expression was the most wonderful example of smug contentment John had ever seen. He smiled at his detective, and tipped his head back in invitation. Sherlock took him up on it, leaning down to kiss John. His lips were soft and firm all at once, gently molding to John's, the kiss slow and sweet and full of love. So much emotion in that nearly chaste kiss that John felt tears prick at the corner of his eyes.

Sherlock held him, and John hugged him back, his mouth opening under the gentle pressure from his lover's lips. Sherlock swept his tongue in, not too deep, just enough to touch the tip of John's tongue. Encouraging him to respond, which he did. John met his love stroke for stroke, telling him without words what he felt for him, how much Sherlock meant to John.

Sherlock pulled back after an eternity, and rested his forehead on the older man's.

"I love you, John Watson." His whisper flew through the short space between them, winging its way to John's heart. John smiled at his love.

"I love you too, Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

><p>Mary gripped the cold iron pipe that came out from the concrete wall with both hands, and pulled herself up. She lifted until her chin touched the bar, and held herself there for a beat before lowering down, keeping her toes from the floor. She repeated that move, over and over, until her shoulders screamed in protest. And she kept going.<p>

Sweat poured down her back, and her muscles burned. She had nothing better to do than exercise, and her determination was showing. While she had been in decent shape before she went into hiding, now she was in fantastic shape. Her arms had defined themselves, her legs tighter, and her stomach was flat and firm. But for the slight swell of her growing child, which was barely noticeable.

Mary estimated she was nine weeks pregnant. No more. A little over four weeks since she learned she was pregnant. Mary never pushed her body too far, being careful not to hurt herself. But she also knew that her limited activity as a result of her hiding would be just as dangerous as exercising. Especially if she were found, and had to run. Or fight. So she kept in shape, slept eight hours a night, and ate as healthy as she could. Violet had been bringing her vitamins, and came twice a week with food and other supplies.

John would come with her, and each time Mary tolerated his incessant questions. Always asking how she was feeling, if there was anything she needed, if she wanted something she hadn't gotten. So very polite and distant. And she would be just as polite, and answer that she was fine. She knew that John wasn't trying to be annoying, that he really did care. But a part of her was starting to feel like a prize brood mare, valued only for the offspring she carried.

Mary had saved his life, saved Sherlock, the whole of bloody London because she was pregnant. She was pushed from her place of rage and pain by the knowledge she could not help destroy her child's father. Regret and remorse had soon followed, and she had betrayed Jaime Moriarty in an attempt to save everyone. She had even tried to save Jaime.

But the young assassin was dead. Or at least, the world assumed she was. Mary didn't know. There had been a slight chance that Jaime had gotten away before Blackwood Manor exploded. Mary had inadvertently given her a knife when she covered the young woman with her jacket. Mary could escape that cell in under five seconds with a knife; she had no doubt that Jaime could do it in two.

It was a chance that Mary kept to herself. She didn't want the world to hunt for a ghost if Jaime truly was dead. And a large part of her heart, that part of her that was the trained CIA assassin, rebelled at telling the authorities that a fellow operative may still be alive. Not to mention that her heart cared for Jaime Moriarty for more than she thought possible, more than she knew was wise. She was watching the news on the mobile gifted to her from Violet, and if she saw any hint that Jaime was alive, then she would say something to Sherlock. Until then, she would stay silent. If Jaime lived, and stayed out of trouble, then Mary would say nothing.

Mary dropped from the pipe, stretching her arms and shoulders. She had been exercising all morning, and she was feeling the stress of being inside too long. She was beginning to feel like she should have taken her chances on prison, considering that in jail she was at least guaranteed an hour outside a day. She hadn't stepped out once since she found herself here, in Sherlock's fake house, for four weeks.

She grabbed a change of clothing, and went to take a shower. The floor was cold under her bare feet, but she didn't mind. There was much she could withstand, tolerate, and the unpleasant coldness was a sensation. She hadn't been able to feel much the last few weeks, her heart, soul and mind numbed by the last couple of months. So she welcomed the discomfort, as it reminded her that she was alive.

She turned on the water, stripping down to bare skin, stepping under the cold water. The cold made her heart race, her skin shiver. She embraced it, and found her thoughts spinning. She fought down the urge to just step outside for some air, the desire to go for run, and the need to speak to anyone who wasn't Violet or John. Anyone. She'd even talk to Sherlock right now.

She may be alive, but she wasn't living. Mary was fading away, and the nameless assassin was taking over. She needed to survive long enough to bare this child. And Mary Morstan may not be strong enough to manage it. Something needed to change.

* * *

><p>Violet was lying flat on her back in the middle of the floor in the front room when John and Sherlock came out from their bedroom. She glanced at her mobile, and smirked at the time. John was really late for work.<p>

"I'd ask why you're on the floor, but since you look like you're okay, I'm just not going to." John said to her, standing over her. She had put on her sweats, and in response, lifted her closest leg to him, straight up in the air, toes pointed at the ceiling.

"Yoga." She wiggled her toes at him, and she laughed when he blinked at the very brilliant neon pink shade she'd painted them the night before. "This is the largest space for it. I usually only do this once you've left, but you're running a little late today."

"Ah. Yoga." John was perplexed, and he just looked down at her as she twisted herself into the facsimile of a pretzel. Well, to him she looked like a pretzel, but to her, she was in a pose called Galavasana. She sat cross legged, drew her folded legs up to her stomach, and lifted herself off the floor, supporting her whole body weight on the palms of her hands. She froze, and zoned out the men in the room, oblivious to John's stunned expression. In and out she breathed, until she hit a minute.

She knew John was still watching, so she kept herself upon her arms. She ducked her head, lifting her hips and legs up in the air over her upper torso, unraveling her legs as she went. She did it slowly, carefully, making it seem far easier than it really was. She put herself in a handstand, legs pressed together, toes pointed at the ceiling. She heard John shift on his feet in surprise, but she wasn't done yet. She changed how she bore her weight, still looking down at the floor, and pulled one arm away. She held herself up on one arm, the other pointed out in a straight line to the wall. That she held for as long as she could, refusing to show the strain she was feeling.

She grinned as John clapped, and she quickly dropped her arm and legs, landing in a crouch. She flipped her hair out of her face, and met his eyes, grinning happily the whole time. She hopped up, and bowed at the stunned appreciation on John's face. She was sweating something fierce now, but she was happy. Exercise always did that for her. Sherlock had thrown himself into his armchair, a very sated look on his face, but he had a small smile hovering about his lips.

"And that was your lesson for the day, grasshopper." Violet said, reaching out to poke John in the chest. "Though you got some exercise in already, I think."

"Um, yeah." John coughed, and Sherlock broke out in a pleased grin. "And on that note, I'm going to work. Don't destroy any more furniture while I'm gone."

"Yes, Captain Watson." Violet laughed at the blush on John's cheeks, but he smiled at her as he went to Sherlock, kissing him goodbye. "But he was the one who did it, I was busy not paying attention."

"And you're the only marginally responsible adult when I'm at work." John laughed, throwing on his heavy winter coat and gloves. The weather had been warning about snow all week.

"Me? What about Mrs. Hudson? Why does it have to be me?" Violet grumbled, but she was enjoying herself. "Have fun. You know, undescended testicles and piles and all."

"Yeah, thanks for the reminder. I'm not telling you anymore stories about my patients. You two get a case while I'm out, please save me by telling me." John waved and left for work. She heard the door close downstairs, and he must have called for a cab, as she heard it pull away from the curb.

"So, did you two save me any hot water?" Violet asked her uncle, who was relaxed so deeply in his chair he wasn't sitting as much as slouching. His head was resting on the back, and he cracked open a single eye at her. He looked seconds away from passing out, so tired was he. "Hmm. I see from that look the answer is no. Looks like I'm in for a cold shower."

She grabbed her towel, and watched as her uncle literally passed out in seconds. He looked so peaceful, and no older than she. It was so weird sometimes, thinking that this man she had known for the past eleven years was her uncle. He was all innocence when he slept. He was closer to her in age than any uncle should really be, so much so he felt more like a brother. She had been without family for almost half her lifetime, so she was learning as she went. So was he, she guessed. Their attitudes hadn't really changed that much, beyond it being easier to show affection. She more than he, but she knew he cared.

He cared, but none of the other Holmes family members did. Mycroft was still pretending she didn't exist, and she knew Sherlock had told his parents, her grandparents, that she existed. They hadn't responded beyond the expected disbelief. Violet knew better than to expect a huge family reunion. She was a criminal, albeit not a violent one. And she had never been convicted, either. And she was the daughter of a serial killer. That would put a lot of people off, even blood.

Violet went to take her shower, pulling her gaze away from Sherlock as he slept. The great detective and his doctor were all the family she needed.

* * *

><p>Sherlock dozed, part of him following Violet's movements through the flat as she went about her day. She didn't chatter on like Mrs. Hudson did, nor did she make as much noise as John. She didn't pretend she wasn't there, or anything else equally silly. She was just naturally that way, only breaking out into endearing chatter when spoken to, or if she had something to actually say to him. And she was never boring. Unlike Mycroft, Violet had yet to bore him.<p>

He heard her mobile chime, and she stopped making coffee as she checked her messages. It must be interesting, as she started humming Bach under her breath. She always did that when she was having fun, when she was happy. He stayed in his chair, eyes closed, hovering in that peaceful place between sleep and being awake. He was very tired, having spent the previous evening experimenting, then tearing up his bed with his doctor all night long. And then there was the shower. He loved showers now.

So Sherlock napped as his niece got her laptop, and sat in John's chair across from him. She liked watching him when she worked. He didn't mind at all. People always watched him. She was one of the few who did so without judging him. John was another. Sherlock knew he was about to fall asleep, and spun his mind down to his mind palace instead, letting his body go to sleep.

He stood in Trafalgar Square, within his mind palace, the sky above him bright with a late summer sun shining down. Sherlock sat on the side of the fountain, and with the barest effort, conjured pigeons into existence at his feet. He pulled up a distant memory, people finding their places in the square as they had been years before. He was replaying a memory, a good one. One of the few before John entered his life.

Sherlock was watching as if he were a bystander, and not part of the memory. The young man who sat nearby was absorbed fully in the book he was reading, dark curls tumbling in the wind. He was hunched over his book, hands holding tightly in the wind. His bag was next to him, open, more books spilling out. He was so focused on his book that he didn't see the older boys coming at him from the side. Sherlock flinched as they grabbed his shoulders, and threw him back into the fountain. The bad part had to happen before the good part.

The young man came up on his feet, sputtering and soaking wet. The ringleader was holding his bag out over the water, swinging it, threatening to drop it in the water as well. His lackeys stood behind him, laughing as their leader sneered at the man he had just sent head first into the fountain.

"What's the matter, freak? Don't like to swim? He looks like a drowned cat!" The ringleader laughed, and made to drop the bag. "C'mon, Sherlock, you nothing but talk?"

"Give it back." Even then his voice was deep and vicious, anger radiating out from his tall slim form, fists clenched at his sides, dripping wet and shivering.

"Make me." The leader taunted, swinging the bag out towards this younger Sherlock, before pulling it back. "Hah! Too slow."

He swung it again, and this time Young Sherlock grabbed it, and yanked hard. The bully spilled forward, letting go of the bag before he fell in the fountain. Young Sherlock threw his bag over his shoulder, and ran for the far side of the fountain. He didn't run fast enough. The leader caught up to him just as he was jumping clear, throwing him back down in the water. His bag dropped to the ground, not in the water. The bully's friends joined them, and Young Sherlock fought them off, getting every one of them to some degree soaking wet.

Sherlock watched as his younger self got beat in the square, people watching in the distance but not stopping what was happening. The younger version of himself and the men beating him never saw the slim form of the then fifteen year old Violet Hunter come up behind them. His bullies paused their attack, having pulled him from the fountain, his soaking and bruised form huddled at their feet. He wasn't much use then against multiple attackers.

"What ya doing?" Violet asked, popping her gum loudly from behind Sherlock's assailants. They turned to look at her, and even then she was beautiful. Her gorgeous eyes were large in her face, her raven hair pulled back in a bouncy ponytail. She wore a very short sundress, her long slim legs bared at mid-thigh all the way down to her strappy sandals. She was pretty, knew it, and that was all she needed to lay them low. They were so distracted they never saw her hands.

Sherlock did, and he grinned as she brought them up, slapping the two stun guns to the chests of the men closest to her. The bright voltage snapped loudly in the air, and the two men she hit with them jerked on their feet, before collapsing to the pavement. The ringleader shouted, and went to grab her arm. He most likely still bore the scar from the contacts, as she planted one of the guns squarely in his face, pulling the trigger. He didn't even make a sound as he jerked hard on his feet, falling once she pulled it back.

"Anyone else want to be a douchebag?" Her sweet voice piped out, and she raised the guns, making them snap menacingly at the two men still standing over Sherlock. They didn't even bother helping their friends to their feet as they put up their hands and walked quickly away. Violet stepped over the nearest bully, her foot colliding solidly with his groin as she did. She ignored his groan of pain, and reached down for Sherlock's bag, slinging it over her shoulder.

"Up you get, Sexy. Before a cop comes along and arrests us instead of them." She stood beside him as Young Sherlock got to his feet, dripping wet, sore, and dirty. "I'm buying lunch, then you're helping me with my chemistry assignment."

"I think this is the most embarrassing moment of my life." Young Sherlock grumbled, but he followed behind her anyway as she lead the way to the street, intending to get them a cab.

"Somehow I don't think so. You've got years left to have that happen again. And I might not be around to save your astoundingly brilliant self from getting a beating." Young Violet poked him in the shoulder, ignoring his glare at the touch.

Grown Sherlock got up, following behind them as they got to the street. The really good part was coming up.

The sleek black car roared to a halt in front of them, and A Slightly Younger Mycroft jumped out the back seat, his long coat flapping in the breeze. He had seen the attack on the CCTV cameras, but had gotten there too late. He was always too late.

"Sherlock, how many times have I told you not to antagonize…." Mycroft's voice trailed off as he saw the young woman standing at his little brother's shoulder, holding his bag, a stun gun in her other hand.

"Excuse me? Did you really just say that fucking shit? What a tool." Violet appeared all sweet and innocent, but the second she got mad, swears and curses tumbled out. She had no filter, either. "How about, 'Are you okay? Do you want me to help you out? Maybe get you an icepack or something?' Who the hell are you, anyway? His dad? That's some effed up concern, buddy."

Slightly Younger Mycroft blinked at the girl in front of him, at a loss for how to process her.

"I'll have you know young lady that I am his brother, and just who are you…." Mycroft tried to speak, but she railroaded him again.

"I'm the fifteen year old chick who just saved your brother. Unlike you, I did something." Violet grabbed Sherlock's arm, and dragged him away. "The name's Violet Hunter."

Young Violet dragged Young Sherlock away, not noticing the astounded look on Sherlock's face. No one had ever stood up for him before, taken a risk and defended him. And no one ever spoke to Mycroft Holmes like that, either. Mycroft stood in shock next to his town car, watching in disbelief as the young girl manhandled his brother into a cab.

Young Sherlock had only just met her the week before, when she snuck into his chemistry class. He had seen immediately that she was new, too young to be here alone, yet she was, and that she had the look of someone who had been on their own for a while. She had sat quietly in his class, just a row below him and to the side. She had noticed him staring at her, and he knew she was aware of his attention. She looked like someone he had once known, someone who was long dead.

He had suspected at the time that she was related to him. Maybe a distant cousin. It wasn't until she saved him at the fountain that day that he had seen his brother in her. Not the evil, the love of violence. But her casual and easy acceptance of violence as a means to an end, that was Sherrinford. And that was Sherlock. But he kept his thoughts to himself, not confirming it until years later.

Grown Sherlock closed his eyes, withdrawing his mind from his palace, and lifting his consciousness back to his body, where he slept in his leather chair. He felt so much better, at peace and ease with his body and mind. He blinked himself awake, eyes focusing on Violet. She was sitting cross legged in John's chair, clicking away at her laptop. Her hair was slightly damp, and she had a mug of coffee next to her elbow on the small table beside the chair. His nose twitched at the smell of caffeine.

He hadn't moved beyond blinking, but she knew he was awake. She reached out without looking, and picked up her coffee, leaning out. He took it from her without a word, glad it was still hot. Cream, two sugars. Perfect.

"Where'd you go this time?" Violet asked him, as she looked up from her laptop.

"Hmm. Trafalgar Square, the fountain." Sherlock didn't need to elaborate. He watched over the coffee mug as she blinked at him. She knew what day he was referring to. She smiled at him, and went back to whatever she was doing.

She started to hum again, and it was always that song by Bach. It was the first song she had heard him play on his violin. He had played it for her that evening, on the day she rescued him from his abusers. He hadn't been able to say thank you, it was beyond him then, but he had tried. So he played for her. And now, eleven years later, she still hummed that same song when she was happy.

* * *

><p>Christmas decorations were everywhere. Doors, windows, lampposts, even the dashboards of cabs. London was responding to the previous month's devastation by pouring on the holiday cheer. It had yet to snow, but the temperatures were falling, and the air had a fierce bite to it that made John think it wouldn't be long.<p>

He was leaving the clinic, a long boring day of endless appointments finally over. He was professional about it, but there were so many times he wished he were elsewhere. Staring at the clock on his office wall wasn't the best way to pay attention to a patient. The only interesting part of his day had been one of his last patients. And interesting wasn't really a good word to describe that appointment. More like awkward, sad, and depressing.

A teenage boy had been battling drug addiction, and his mother had finally managed to drag him in to see a doctor. John grimaced at the unpleasant memory. Mom had been under the assumption that her son was just ill, battling a severe virus or infection. He was ill, but he suffered from addiction. Telling her that her son was an addict, and would benefit most from entering rehab, had been hard. Especially as her son just sat in his chair, staring at the floor, not responding to anything. He had been high even in John's office.

Mom wouldn't listen, right up until John had stood, picked up her unresisting son's arm, and pulled back the sleeve. The needle tracks were faint, but obvious. Her tears had flowed, and her son hadn't responded to her broken heart at all. John had called Donovan at Scotland Yard, and helped Mom wrangle her son into the patrol car Donovan had sent over. John had searched the young man, and flushed every single piece of illegal substance he found on him. He wouldn't be charged with possession, and he was currently being admitted into a facility that could help him.

The air was crisp, nipping at his face as the wind blew. John walked to the corner, waiting on a cab. He felt a stinging wet spot on his face, and looked up. It was snowing. Tiny little flakes were falling, so small they were almost invisible. John smiled at the sight, and didn't care who saw him stick out his tongue, catching a flake as it fell. Christmas was a couple of weeks away, and he thought about stopping for a tree on his way home. Sherlock wasn't one to put up decorations, but he didn't quibble when Mrs. Hudson and John put them up. He could even be persuaded to play on the holidays.

John was about to hail a cab when his mobile chimed in his pocket. He pulled it out, standing at the curb as snow fell harder around him. It was Sherlock.

**Donovan called. Case at Black Park Lake, nurseries just south of the lake on Black Park Road. Murder. Do hurry. –SH**

**On my way. –JW**

John hailed a cab, and he threw himself into the back seat. That was a long drive at this time of day, and he settled back in the seat, watching the snow fall on London.

* * *

><p>Sherlock stood beside the barn, watching the blood freeze on the cold ground. He was on the leeward side of the building, so the snow wasn't obscuring much of the crime scene. The body was just past the open door, as if it had been dragged by a large predator, and dropped in the dirt. It had been a predator, the most vicious on the planet. Man.<p>

The woman no longer resembled a person, just a torn assemblage of mangled limbs and bloody clothing. The smell of entrails and exposed flesh was heavy in the wet air. Her blonde hair helped identify the head, and her gender, but otherwise, it would require an autopsy to determine who she was for certain. Unless you were Sherlock Holmes, of course.

Sergeant Donovan stood inside the barn, watching as Sherlock stared at the corpse, unmoving. Sherlock heard her shift on her feet, trying to hide her impatience. Her demeanor had improved marvelously since Moriarty had kidnapped her the previous month, but old habits die hard. He couldn't tell if she was impatient with him, or if it was due to the rapidly falling temperatures. He cast her a sideways glance, saw her huddled under her heavy coat. The weather, then.

Sergeant Donovan had been temporarily assigned to head up Lestrade's division of Scotland Yard, while that worthy individual recovered from his injuries. He was due to be discharged from the hospital this week, and was facing months yet of physical therapy before he would be cleared for duty. Which meant Sherlock had to suffer through dealing with Donovan, and DI Dimmock.

Sherlock knew that Donovan was losing the battle with her impatience, but he paid her no mind. His attention was fixed on the slain woman's clothing, the footwear she had on, the direction she had been dragged from. His eyes tracked the signs in the dirt, across the concrete floor of the barn, to the opposite doors, which were open, facing the road. Sherlock saw the black cab as it stopped just behind the police cars, and his heart did a funny little jump as John get out. Donovan saw him staring, and turned to see what was so interesting. She rolled her eyes as she saw the doctor, but said nothing.

Sherlock walked around Donovan, towards his doctor as John followed the crime scene tape to the barn. Sherlock didn't even hesitate, he lifted the tape, and let John in, ignoring the glares from a patrol officer guarding the tape line.

"What we got? You said murder?" John asked him, the barn's dark shadows and the failing light making the air take on an ominous note.

"Hmmm. Female victim, just past the other doors over there." Sherlock led the way to the other door, and let John go ahead of him. John had been around enough crimes scenes now that he knew where to step, what to watch out for, how close he could get.

John didn't even pause, unperturbed by the mangled corpse, the blood everywhere. His doctor paid attention to the wounds, the broken bones, the split torso, and the entrails spilling out on the cold ground.

"Female, late thirties, early forties, minimal defensive wounds. Extreme blunt force trauma, lacerations, fatal blood loss from over a dozen potential causes of death. I'd say animal, but there are no paw prints in the dirt, none in the blood. Just boot prints." John was talking out loud, and Sherlock grinned, exceedingly proud of his doctor.

"Spot on John, keep going." Sherlock encouraged his lover, leaning against the open barn door at his back. "I'll let you know when you've caught up."

John tossed him a look, one that was half pleased, and half annoyed. Sherlock just waved him back to the body, crossing his arms over his chest. John went back to the body, and stared down at it.

"The size of the injuries, the wounds, all indicate that it was the same weapon that caused most of this damage. And if I'm not mistaken…" John held out his own hand, hovering over a mark just above the exposed ribcage. "Yeah, hands, too. Much larger than mine. A very big man did this."

"Excellent work, John." Sherlock said, jumping away from the door, coat flapping in the breeze. "Let's go catch us a killer, shall we?"

"You know who did this and we've been standing here in the cold for nearly an hour?" Donovan said, eyes wide. Her voice cracked on the last word, and she glared at the consulting detective.

"Certainly. Had to wait for John, of course. I never waste an opportunity to show off in front of John." Sherlock tossed that comment over his shoulder, heading back through the barn, and he walked off into the falling snow. He didn't see John get red in the face, a huge grin forming on his lips. John took off after Sherlock, leaving Donovan to follow behind them.

The snow was falling faster, sticking to the ground. Small white sheets were forming on the walkways, the paths through the great nursery. Trees barren of leaves rose from the grounds, and snow gathered on branches, making skeletons of the sleeping giants.

The snow was pure white, but for where it mixed with blood, rose red and spreading. The snow was letting them see where the blood was on the dark ground. Sherlock followed the blood path, stepping around the stains, weaving with unerring accuracy towards his target. John was at his heels, and as they walked off into the lowering darkness, John felt at his waistband for his gun. There was an air of menace in the air, the silence generated by the falling snow.

A large glass building loomed from the shadows, and Sherlock headed for it without hesitation. The greenhouse was dark, but for a single light the burned from within.

"Okay, Sherlock. Explain please." John murmured under his breath, chin tucked deep in his collar against the cold.

"You said the same weapon was used for the injuries caused to the victim, did you not?" Sherlock saw John nod, and went back to watching the ground in front of him. "But that makes no sense, given the blunt force trauma, the large and deep lacerations, and the signs of bare hands."

"Oh. Yeah. Huh." John sounded embarrassed, but Sherlock grinned.

"You aren't wrong, John." Sherlock stopped just below the great glass walls of the greenhouse, trying to see past the haze of the glass. "It was the same weapon, wielded by one man."

"I'm lost." John stopped beside him, and they waited for Donovan to catch up.

"Where are we?" Sherlock asked John, hands buried in his pockets, breath frosting in the air.

"Um…. A nursery." John offered.

"Yes we are. Did you see the state of her boots?" Sherlock queried, Donovan listening intently.

"Um, no. Distracted by the blood and guts, sorry."

"Look around John. Winter is here, there is nothing green, nothing living. But she had flower petals stuck in the tread of her boots. And her clothes, where not covered by dirt and grime, were stained by green plant matter. Which is why we are here, at the greenhouse, in an otherwise dormant nursery, Christmas mere weeks away."

"Okay, so she was in the greenhouse. " John was following. Trying to. "What does Christmas have to do with anything?"

"Yes, with her killer. Her wounds are consistent with large pruning shears. Blades for the lacerations, the handles for the blunt force trauma, and since he seemed rather pissed off as he killed her, I'm certain he used his hands too." Sherlock leaned down slightly, his eyes twinkling in the fading twilight. Night was coming, and quickly. "And Christmas is why she was here, why her killer was here."

"What?" That was Donovan, finally speaking up.

"Yes, see?" Sherlock pulled out his mobile, showing them the screen. It showed the front entrance of the nursery, and two people standing under the sign. The woman had long blonde hair, and the man at her shoulder was tall, over six feet. The news headline showed '_Christmas Roses and Poinsettias in High Demand, Local Nursery Supplying Flowers for Charity Events in London.'_

"So, live plants, pruning shears, and a woman beaten and slashed to death by a large male assailant, rose petals, blood trail…. facile. Still don't know why I was called, but as I'm here now….." Sherlock motioned for Donovan to approach the doors of the greenhouse. "Might as well see this through, he's in there."

"What?" John asked, backing away from the door as Donovan pulled her weapon. "We've been standing out here chatting, and the killer is in there?"

"Yes we have been, and yes, he's in there. Rather strange he hasn't attempted to run for it, but as he's a big fellow, he may think he can fight his way out of this. Do go get him, Sergeant. I'd like to go home."

Donovan approached the door, saying nothing as John drew his weapon, guarding her back. Technically John wasn't allowed to be carrying, but seeing as all the other police officers were still back at the barn, Sally wasn't going to quibble legalities.

Donovan opened the door, John on her heels as she entered. Warmth spilled out over them, the strong scent of roses permeating the air. She disappeared into the fog that formed as a result of the cold air, John and Sherlock on her heels.

The greenhouse was full of flowers. Reds and whites and sweet yellows from the roses, and the deep blood red of poinsettias in their gold foiled pots. The scents were overwhelming. Sally kept her gun up, heading for that single lamp glowing amid the flowers, as John swept the shadows. Sherlock followed close behind.

"I found him." Sally's voice was soft in the close spaces, muffled by the plants. She sounded strange. Not excited at all.

Sherlock entered the light from the single lamp hanging from the ceiling. It cast a small circle of orange light on the concrete floor, on the figure lying still. Sherlock stared down at the man prone at his feet. He was over six feet tall, easily twice Sherlock's weight, and he was very dead.

Blood covered his arms, his hands, up to his shoulder, soaking his chest, down to his hips. There were no signs of injury on him, his clothes were intact, no gunshot wounds, no stab wounds, nothing. The blood wasn't his, it was the woman's. A large set of pruning shears was still clutched in his hand, blood caking every inch of the murder weapon. Tiny bits of flesh clung to the blades, and his hands.

His face was bluish and splotchy. His eyes were bloodshot, and his tongue protruded from his mouth. It was deep sick purple color, as were his lips.

John lowered his weapon, and went to lean over the body.

"John, stop." Sherlock warned his doctor. John froze, and looked at Sherlock in apprehension. "Don't touch the body. No one touch anything in here. He was poisoned."

"We need to leave exactly as we entered, touch nothing. Keep your hands away from your faces, don't touch your gloves to bare skin." Sherlock ordered, and the tone of his voice brokered no argument from the officer and his doctor. "Out, now."

Sherlock grabbed John by the arm, and didn't wait for his lover to move on his own, dragging him to the door and out of the greenhouse. John barely had time to protest before Sherlock was examining his gloves, tossing the gun down to the snow. John tried to stop him, but Sherlock wasn't listening, eyes intent on John's gloves. He saw nothing on the surface, nothing that wasn't supposed to be there from normal use. He sighed in relief, then pounced on Donovan.

She tried to tug herself away from him, but he was determined, and ignored her struggles. She gave up, and let him look over her leather gloves. Sherlock saw it, a thin, shiny glaze on the hand she had opened the door with. He grasped her wrist, and dug in his pockets, pulling out a clear plastic bag.

"Did you touch anything? Anything other than the door, and your gun?" Sherlock demanded as he used the plastic bag like a glove, grabbing her glove and peeling it off her hand.

"What? No, nothing." She was flabbergasted, as he bagged her glove and tied off the end.

"Don't touch it. You've got the toxin on your glove. It was on the doorknob." Sherlock eyed her gun, and she glanced at it nervously. He pulled out another bag, and made her drop the weapon in it. "Call whoever you need to, lock this scene down, warn everyone not to touch anything. Make your calls, Sergeant."

Sherlock let go of Sally, and she pulled out her mobile, dialing as she walked away a few feet, eyeing the greenhouse with a trace of fear. John was staring at him in shock, and Sherlock walked back to his doctor, wrapping his arms around John, holding him close.

"Sherlock, you okay?" John whispered in his ear, his doctor holding him tightly.

"Yes." Sherlock buried his cold nose in John's neck, making him jump. "Looks like this case just got more interesting."

* * *

><p>Violet sat in her uncle's chair, her laptop keeping her legs warm. Sherlock had been gone for hours now, and Mrs. Hudson was next door at Mrs. Turner's. Violet grabbed the poker from the hearth, poking at the logs burning merrily away. It was dark, the only light coming from the fire, and the single lamp on in Sherlock's room down the hall. John was with her uncle, and he had texted her just minutes ago, telling her that they were on their way home.<p>

Violet had smiled, oddly touched by John updating her on where they were. As if she were family, and such things were important. The night was very quiet, the falling snow muffling all sounds. She looked at the windows, and saw it was still falling, great white flakes visible in the street lights.

She sighed, determined not to fall asleep in Sherlock's chair. He wouldn't mind much, but having to drag herself back to the couch was too hard at the moment. She'd move when he got home. She went back to work, focused on the lines of code cycling down her screen.

Violet didn't hear it at first. Faint scraping noises from downstairs, like a piece of furniture was moving. Or a door being opened, below her in Mrs. Hudson's flat.

_Mrs. Hudson must be back already. She said she was going to be late, it's kinda early. She must be part ninja, I didn't hear the front door open… I didn't hear it open. Fuck. That's not her._

Violet slowly raised her eyes from laptop screen, staring hard at the stairwell, the black void of it suddenly ominous. She could see nothing. But she knew, like she knew how to breathe, that she wasn't alone anymore. Someone was in the flat, trying their best not to be heard. Violet fought back her fear, and lowered her laptop to the floor. Her heart was racing, blood pounding in her ears. She watched the stairwell, and she thought she saw a slight motion. Furtive, tiny, as if someone had peeked between the railings, trying to see up into the flat.

Violet resisted the urge to scream, to call out. She pulled her mobile out, and without looking, hit the speed dial for Sherlock. She felt the small speakers vibrate in her tight grip as she stared at the person-shaped shadow creep up the stairs, pausing on the landing. She knew the call went through, as she caught the faint sound of her uncle's voice from her mobile's speakers.

Violet sucked in a deep breath, and jumped from the chair, the shadow man moving as she ran for her uncle's room. She barreled past the open kitchen door, screaming as a black clad arm snaked out from the doorway, trying to grab her. A large man careened past her, slamming into the burnt kitchen table. She ran, not stopping as she darted into Sherlock's room, throwing the door shut, locking it behind her. She reached over, and locked the bathroom door too. She brought her mobile to her ear, backing away from the doors. Sherlock was yelling over the open line, having heard her scream.

"Sherlock, someone's here. A man, oh God. He's after me, fuck fuck fuck…" She cried out as the door shook on its hinges, a large body slamming against it from the outside. "Sherlock!"


	38. The Master

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**WARNING: Violence. Some sexy stuff. Oh, and a very, very bad man makes an appearance. Enjoy!**

**A/N: My villain is a variant of an original Conan Doyle. I hope everyone loves what I've done with him.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirty Eight<strong>

"_**The Master"**_

Violet cried out as he slammed into the door again, the man who had broken into her uncle's flat. Sherlock was calling her name over the open line, and she slapped a hand over her mouth, shaking.

"Violet, we're almost home. Calm down. Where are you?" Sherlock's voice was calming, reassuring, despite the man doing his best to get in the bedroom.

"I'm in your room. He's outside the door, trying to break it down." She whispered past her hand, unable to take her eyes away from the shadow of the man barely visible under the door. "Hurry, please. He's still here."

Violet could hear John in the background, yelling at the cabbie to go faster. Sherlock was still calm, and she struggled to match him, but she couldn't. She was shaking too hard. She cried out as the shadow man started to kick the door, his foot slamming into the wood next to the door handle. The door held, but she knew it wouldn't for long.

"Sherlock, you aren't going to make it in time." Violet gasped out. Fear was rising in her, fear that she hadn't felt since she was a child, on her own. "He's going to kill me."

"Violet! Fight! He gets through that door, you fight!" Sherlock finally shouted, the finality in her voice making his control shatter. She couldn't respond, her voice stolen by panic. She felt removed from her body, as if her soul was preparing to die, pulling away from her physical form.

_Everyone dies alone. I am going to die._

Violet struggled to be calm, to keep from shutting down from panic. She couldn't run, the windows opened too high over the alleyway, and were locked shut against the frigid nights.

The shadow man was kicking the door, over and over. Violet lowered the mobile, and tossed it to the bed. The line was still open, and she could hear Sherlock shouting her name. Violet tore her eyes from the door, and looked around Sherlock's room. His room was always clean, spotlessly organized. She went quickly to the dresser against the wall, and ripped open the top drawer. She growled in frustration; John's gun gone and not where he usually kept it.

She hurriedly looked around, and froze in terror. The shadow man was in the bathroom, his silhouette clearly visible through the glass panes of the door. He was tall, dressed in black, and facing her through the wavy glass of the bathroom door. As if he could see her, see her fear. She gasped, a sob ripping from her, and she held a hand over her mouth, trying to quiet herself.

The shadow man raised his fist, and began punching the door. The glass cracked, and the door shook. This door was far more fragile than the main bedroom door, and it was starting to cave. Glass shattered on his second hit, and Violet knew she was going to die if he got in the room.

_NO. Fuck this, I am not dying. NO!_

Violet's eyes latched on the sword hanging on the wall. It was Sherlock's rapier, from some championship he won first place in when he was a teenager. The glass gave way just as she leapt for the weapon, her hand on the hilt. She pulled it free, the blade hissing as it released from the leather scabbard. Violet lifted the blade, just in time, the shadow man unlocking the door, smashing it open against the nightstand.

He lunged for her, arms outstretched, clearly seeing her as not a threat. Violet swung the blade, the sharp steel singing in the air, and she sliced the hand coming at her. He yelled, and she back pedaled, but not fast enough. His other hand came up, smacking her across the face, throwing her back into a bookshelf. She kept her grip on the blade, and she pushed off the case, swinging again, slashing at his shoulder. She laid him open, blood rushing from the long gash. The shadow man growled a curse at her, and backed up, a hand pressed to the wound. Violet gripped the sword in both hands, the point up and between them.

"Fuck off!" Violet yelled, and she disappeared under the rage that swept up from her soul. She was not a victim. She was Violet Hunter, _Violet Holmes_, and she would not be afraid. Violet lifted the sword, swinging at his face, stepping forward as she did. She missed, but she was past the point of caution. She flew into a fury, swinging the blade again and again, both hands gripping it, the shining steel covered in blood.

Violet felt the blows he landed on her face, her shoulders, but in a distant part of her, a place buried under her fury. He tried repeatedly to grab the sword from her, but she scratched at him with one hand as she kept her grip on the blade. She knew she was screaming, yelling, wordless cries of fury and pain. She was kicking, biting, stabbing and slashing.

When it happened, it was as if it were in a dream. The shadow man had a hand around her throat, squeezing. When the sword pierced his chest, she felt like someone else was holding the hilt, that someone else's hand was pushing the slim blade between his ribs. Time slowed. She saw it all, felt it all, tasted blood and sweat. She saw the blood running down his face, the gashes and cuts across his shoulders and chest. And the wreckage of Sherlock's bedroom, blood everywhere. She felt her own bruises, gashes, the lacerations from accidentally cutting herself with the sword as she madly swung it.

Violet felt his heart beating along the length of the blade, as the tip sank in the pounding muscle. She was close enough to him to see the disbelief in her attacker's eyes as he died. His hand fell from her neck, and she sucked in air, tasting blood on her tongue. He stood, the light dimming from his bloodshot eyes. She pushed harder, and his heart stopped beating.

He was dead on his feet. The shadow man slowly fell back, his weight pulling the blade from his chest. She held the sword, the point to the dead man's throat. Violet was in shock, cold now, her hand shaking, every muscle quivering with the overdose of adrenaline in her system.

She didn't hear the front door of the flat crash open, or the two sets of footsteps race up the stairs. She couldn't hear Sherlock and John screaming her name, running down the hall past the kitchen, into the bedroom. Violet couldn't look away from the dead man at her feet, the sword dripping blood.

"Violet!" Sherlock called to her from far away, over and over.

John and Sherlock were just feet away from her, but she didn't know they were there. All she saw was a man reaching for her, and she snapped, the blade flashing up faster than she could think. She screamed, the sound strangled, her eyes wild, and she fell back against the wall. Violet's legs slowly gave out, and she collapsed to the floor. She kept the sword up, and met Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock had an arm out, restraining John from reaching for her. She couldn't hear anything past the pounding of her heart in her ears. She saw nothing but the brilliant diamond eyes of her uncle. She stared in them, and counted her heart beats. Counted them, because now every one of them was precious. She had almost died, lost her life on this night. Never again would she take air for granted, take for granted the earth beneath her feet, the warmth in a hug.

The sword fell at last from her hand, crashing to the floor. She was shaking, and so cold, so very cold. Violet felt the hot burning acid of tears run from her eyes, down her face. Suddenly she could hear again, and she flinched. She brought her hands up to her ears, and curled in on herself. She buried her face in her knees, curling up as small as she could get.

"No, Sherlock. Slowly. She's in shock, don't scare her." John's voice was like electricity, stinging exposed nerve endings.

"Violet? Sweetheart?" John said, and she heard him settling to the floor a couple of feet away. His voice was gentle, soft, sweet.

Violet heard Sherlock on his mobile, probably calling the police. She was so tired, her muscles quivering. She had started to sweat, her skin clammy and sticking. Her hair was wet along her neck, and she had no strength left to lift her head. She wasn't aware she was sobbing until her shaking torso caused her arms to slip from her knees, nearly falling over.

She raised her head, feeling like it was the hardest thing she had ever done. She stared at the bloody corpse on the floor of her uncle's bedroom, looking like it went through a blender. She blinked, and raised a shaking hand to her face, pushing her hair from her eyes. She paused, gazing at her hand. Her fingers were bloody, her knuckles scrapped, some nails broken. Violet sat back against the wall, and lifted her other hand, seeing the same ruin. She breathed, in and out, and stilled her sobs.

"Violet?" John called to her softly, moving closer. She finally looked to him, the concern on his face so clear, it was painful to see. She sucked in a deep, cleansing breath, and turned back to the body on the floor.

Violet curled her hands to fists, and felt something new. Something she had never really felt before. She had skated through life on bravado, and a joyous carelessness that let her get away with so much. She had always counted on her intellect, her ability to manipulate technology and people to get what she wanted, to do as she pleased. But a small part of her had always wondered what she was capable of, what she would be, in those moments that mattered most. Would she be a coward? Would she cry and beg, or would she fight?

Violet steeled her legs, her back, and pushed up the wall, using it to get back to her feet. Fire was burning in her heart, chasing away the misery and fear, the chaos. She breathed deeply, over and over, eyes trained on the dead man. A powerful sensation was singing out from her soul, and she lifted her chin. Sherlock was evaluating her, and John had gained his feet. They were watching her, wondering what she was doing.

She felt strong, powerful, as if she was a new person. She could do anything. Violet Hunter had survived. She stepped away from the wall, and moved to the body. John had a hand out, as if he expected her to fall. She stood over the corpse, and took another deep breath. Violet looked up, to meet her uncle's eyes. Sherlock was standing on the other side of the body, watching her, calm. He had seen that she was still in one piece, and was waiting to see what she would do next.

"Fucker." She gasped out, kicking at the dead man. Her foot landed solidly on a rib, and she refused to recoil from the body as it moved limply. She turned back to Sherlock, and tried to smile for him.

Violet stepped over the still warm corpse as if it weren't there, and went to him. Sherlock looked slightly surprised, but he opened his arms, and she walked in them. Sherlock wrapped his long arms around her, and she rested her head on his shoulder. She didn't cry, just hugged him. He held her tightly, their heights nearly the same. He rested his face in her hair, and they stood together in silence.

She was so tired. Alive, but tired. Relieved and tired. So tired she gave in to the darkness as it swept over her mind.

* * *

><p>Anthea stared at her mobile in disbelief. The alert had come through Scotland Yard. A home invasion at 221B Baker Street, one casualty. She was running from her room before she even finished reading the text.<p>

Anthea ran barefoot down the long hall, to Mycroft's room. She banged her fist on the door, over and over. She heard Mycroft swear, unused to such activity in his house. She would handle his irritation later. The door opened, to reveal the annoyed and surprised face of her boss, the spymaster of MI6.

Mycroft gaped at her, and she thrust her mobile in his hands.

"No idea on who the casualty is, sir. Scotland Yard is en route now." She gasped out, and she watched as his face paled, turned to frozen, frigid granite.

"Get the car, we're leaving for Baker Street now." Mycroft ordered, and she snatched her mobile back, running for her room, getting her shoes. She called for the ever ready car as she slipped back into her heels, grabbing her coat. She met Mycroft in the hall, both of them heading for the stairs.

They both ran down the stairs, out the recently repaired front foyer of his house, and to the waiting black Jaguar at the curb. Mycroft had his mobile out, and she knew he was dialing his brother.

* * *

><p>Sherlock felt his mobile go off in his pocket, the vibration easily ignored. The young woman in his arms took precedence over whoever was calling him. Sherlock met John's worried eyes over his niece's shoulder, the doctor a few feet away. Violet was quiet, her arms tight around his neck. She wasn't crying, but she was very still. Too still.<p>

John stepped over the dead invader, not minding the blood on the floor. It was a night for blood. John came to them, and he put a gentle hand on Violet's back. She didn't react, not at all. John rubbed his hand up and down, and Sherlock pulled back slightly, trying to see her face. Her eyes were shut, face pale. She had scrapes and bruises forming, a cut lip and the clear imprint of a hand on her neck. And she was unconscious.

"John, she's passed out." Sherlock swiftly bent down, and swooped an arm under her knees, keeping one around her shoulders. He picked her up easily, her weight nothing. Sherlock turned and strode from his room, carrying her out to the front room. John followed behind him, turning on the lights as he went.

Sherlock took her to the couch, and lowered her gently, her head on the armrest farthest from the door.

"John, secure the flats, please. The front door was locked when we came in, check Mrs. Hudson's flat, the back entrance." Sherlock asked his lover, and John nodded, pulling his gun from his waistband, clicking off the safety. He moved from the flat without a word, the weapon up, disappearing down the stairs.

Violet was pale, so limp she made him afraid. Sherlock throttled back his rage at the damage done to his niece. She was bruised and bleeding and miraculous. She had saved herself. She had fought, and won. He knelt at her side, running his fingers through her raven black hair, so much like his. Hers was wavy instead of curly, and far more tamable. She had it cut to just above her shoulders, so it swung freely every time she turned her head. So soft, and he couldn't stop himself from playing with it. A part of him realized he was reassuring himself that she was alive, that she was still here. That while he hadn't made it in time, she had survived until he came for her.

Sherlock heard the sounds of sirens approaching the flat, the police and the ambulances coming. Late as usual. Sherlock didn't move from his spot by her head, resting beside the couch on his knees. John came back up the stairs, and paused briefly in the doorway before heading up to the small room and the short hallway upstairs. That space was cleared quickly, and John ran back down the stairs, tucking his gun back under his jumper.

Sherlock dimly heard John usher the police into the flat, down the hall to their bedroom. Sherlock heard the exclamations of surprise from the officers, the swearing. John was talking, his voice distant as he explained what had happened, what they knew. He ignored the police officers who were trying to get his attention. He refused to pull his attention from his niece's face. She was still unconscious, and Sherlock was getting worried.

"John?" Sherlock called softly, but his doctor heard him. John came back out to the front as swiftly as he would have liked, straight to his side. "She hasn't woken up yet."

"Sherlock, let me see her. Budge over." John told him, gently pushing him back from his niece. John's capable and skilled hands raced over her face, her head, examined her neck. John found the cuts and slashes on her arms and legs from the sword, the bruised knuckles from hitting her assailant. Her neck was swiftly bruising, the imprints of the invader's fingerprints clear on her lovely skin.

"Nothing broken, nothing too serious. May need some stitches. I don't see any signs of internal bleeding, nor of a concussion. She's remarkably intact for what she just went through. It's just shock and stress, Sherlock. Cover her up, let the medics have a look at her. They're coming in now." John told him, and Sherlock felt some of his tension ease. John was never wrong, not when it came to this sort of thing.

Sherlock moved back, and sat on the other end of the coffee table, as far as he was willing to go. The paramedics came in, and Sherlock let John explain what had happened. He had yet to look away from her still form on the couch. They looked at him in askance, but he ignored them completely.

Sherlock felt the atmosphere in the room change. Someone was here, who hadn't been here in over a month. Sherlock finally lifted his eyes from his niece, to see his elder brother standing in his doorway. Mycroft was pale, and out of breath. Sherlock met his eyes, and thought he saw a glimmer of guilt, of worry in his brother's expression. Panic. Sherlock looked back to Violet, still out on the couch cushions. He heard Mycroft gasp softly as he saw the unconscious Holmes scion, and he stepped all the way into the room. He walked to Sherlock, but he ignored him in favor of staring at Violet. Sherlock smelled the flowery scent of Anthea's perfume, and she came in as well, moving to the fireplace, out of the way.

"Sherlock, what happened?" Mycroft demanded. Sherlock didn't answer, his jaw tightening in anger. His brother only cared when something messy happened, something inconvenient. John saw his face, and went to Mycroft, pulling the MI6 man away, to the fireplace. He could hear John telling Mycroft and Anthea what had happened. Mycroft would be able to tell most of it from just observing the flat. John led him down the hall to their bedroom, and Sherlock grimaced as he heard Mycroft take control of the Scotland Yard officers.

One of the paramedics reached for Violet's neck, and the scream that came from her in response was bloodcurdling. Violet shot up from the couch, her amethyst eyes bright and wild. She threw herself on the back of the couch, her shoulders against the wall, one hand out, as if holding off a monster. Everyone came running, and all the people pressing in on her, talking to her all at once was overwhelming. Strangers reached for her, and she lashed out, fist colliding sharply with one of the police officers who tried to grab her wrists. They reached for her again, and Sherlock snapped.

"ENOUGH!" Sherlock shouted, pushing people out of his way. An officer fell to the floor, but the others scrambled out of his way. Violet saw him, and jumped. Sherlock caught her, wrapping his hysterical niece in his arms. He strode to the fireplace, and sat them both in his chair. She curled up on his chest, and sobbed. She had been as strong as she could up until this point, but even he was feeling the strain of so many strangers in his home, the scent of blood and death heavy in the air.

Sherlock held her, glaring daggers at those who tried to venture too close. His entire attitude promised violence to anyone who thought to lay a hand on her until he gave leave. He glared back at the officer who he had shoved to the floor, daring the imbecile to say anything, anything at all.

John moved to the fireplace as well, standing beside his chair, facing the room. For once Mycroft made himself useful, and began directing people's attention away from the young woman in his brother's arms, and towards collecting evidence. He kicked the paramedics out, as they obviously weren't needed with a doctor living on site.

Sherlock directed a meaningful glance at John, and flicked his eyes over Violet's laptop, where it rested beside his armchair. She must have been working in his chair when the intruder attacked. John bent down, as if he were speaking to Sherlock, and snatched her laptop up from the floor, holding it behind his back. Sherlock looked at Mycroft, and he saw Violet's mobile held discreetly in his brother's hand. No matter how he may feel about her parentage, Mycroft was not willing to discuss the very illegal software on his niece's electronic equipment with the police.

Sherlock sat in that chair, Violet in his lap, as the coroner finally arrived. The dead man was finally cleared and released to be removed from the flat. The police wanted to take evidence from Violet's clothing, her hands, but Sherlock's face kept them at bay. Sherlock's attitude of barely restrained violence clearly communicated the futility of trying to talk to Violet. They were merely there because Sherlock didn't want to bother removing a body from his flat himself. Sherlock, Mycroft, and John all knew what had happened.

Violet shuddered as the body was wheeled out of the bedroom. Sherlock saw his sword clutched in the hand of a police officer, wrapped up in a plastic evidence bag. Sherlock tried to repress his dismay, but Mycroft saw it, and correctly guessed why. He went to the officer, and spoke to him quietly. The officer tried to resist, but Mycroft held firm, and the officer handed it over to his brother before walking out of the flat. Mycroft gently put his sword on the burnt out table, the blade still shining, even covered in blood and plastic.

Blessed silence finally descended in the flat. Mrs. Hudson peeked in the room, the police finally allowing her to come up. She must have come back home sometime during the middle of all the chaos.

She looked very worried, her hands over her mouth. She tried to approach Sherlock and Violet, but John intercepted her, guiding her into the kitchen instead. Mycroft and Anthea were in his bedroom, most likely looking for clues the police hadn't found. Which would be a lot.

Sherlock adjusted his hold on Violet, glancing down at her. She had kept her face pressed to his chest the entire time, not moving or looking up. She hadn't spoken a single word, not since the curse she'd thrown at the corpse. Nothing. Sherlock ran his fingers through her hair, soothing himself and her as best he could. She shifted, turning in to his touch, her body relaxing. He kept petting her hair, and he noticed when she started to doze off. She was relaxed enough to sleep, and he let her. He rested his head on hers, and sighed. This family business was so hard. But the emotional feedback he was getting was just as addicting as what he got from John, and he didn't mind the effort.

Sherlock was dimly aware of Mycroft staring him and the girl he held. He seemed to make up his mind, and came in the room, sitting in John's chair. Mycroft observed his brother tending to their niece, an unreadable look on his face.

"Is she asleep?" Mycroft asked, his brows lowered, voice as quiet as he could get it.

"Yes." Sherlock answered, unwilling to talk.

"You can't hold her forever, she is covered in blood. So are you, by the way."

"Excellent deductions, Mycroft. Brilliantly obvious." Sherlock snapped.

"Boys, not now." John scolded. He left the kitchen, and came over to Sherlock. "She needs to get cleaned up. Let me have a look at her."

"But…." Sherlock loathed to let her go. She was safe with him.

"She'll be fine with me." John murmured, putting a hand on his lover's shoulder, squeezing. Sherlock sighed loudly, and bent his head to Violet's ear.

"Violet." He whispered. No response. She was relaxed, breathing slow and deep. She was very much asleep.

"Is she sleeping?" Anthea asked from the doorway, her green eyes bright and concerned.

Violet stirred, lifting her head, her hair tickling Sherlock's nose. Sherlock hid a grin in the raven locks. She hadn't heard him, but she had heard the cultured tones of Mycroft's personal aide. Sherlock saw where her interest went. Violet blinked at all the people staring at her, before turning, looking her uncle in the face. The look of mild chagrin and appreciation she gave him made Sherlock's heart take a tiny tumble.

"Oh, this is embarrassing." She grumbled. "I haven't been held in a man's lap since that disastrous Christmas when I was five. I puked all over creepy fake Santa's shiny black boots. Oh, and when I made out with John last month, but that doesn't count."

Violet put her hand on his chest, and pushed up, wavering before finding her balance. He held a hand to her shoulder, nervous she might topple off his leg.

"Where'd everyone go?" She asked, hand pushing her hair back out of her eyes. "And why do I remember punching a cop?"

"Sherlock scared them all out. You feeling up to letting me check you over?" John asked her. "And yes, you punched a cop."

"First time for everything, I suppose." Violet put her hand out, letting John help her to her feet. "A man checking me over, not the punching a cop thing. I've done that before."

"I want to hear that story for certain. In the bathroom, let's go." John roped an arm around her waist, and helped her walk. She rubbed a hand through Sherlock's wild curls before stepping away, her odd way of saying thank you.

"Well, I was in New York City, and this really cute chick was getting a parking ticket…" Violet's voice faded out as John led her down the hall, Sherlock watching the whole way.

Sherlock felt a tension ease in him when he heard John laugh in response to what she was saying. Anthea wandered after them, and Sherlock's lips twitched when he saw Violet snake an arm out from the bathroom, grabbing Anthea's wrist and tugging her in too. The hallway door shut, and Sherlock tore his gaze away.

Sherlock got up so quickly he made Mycroft jump. He threw off his coat, his scarf, realizing as he did that he had been wearing them the whole night. Sherlock strode from his flat, down the stairs, and through his landlady's door. He went to the kitchen entrance, the one that opened to the rear alley.

The door was shut now, police tape over the handle, and an evidence seal over where the deadbolt used to be. The invader had broken the locking mechanism completely, not bothering trying to pick the lock, or forcing the bolt. Instead, the entire deadbolt, handle, all of it was broken. Subtlety hadn't been important. The fervor and violence of his actions gave no other impression other than murder. This man had come with the intent to kill someone. The question was who had he come to kill?

Nothing was disturbed in Mrs. Hudson's flat. The invader had come to this back door specifically, and once in, moved with purpose to the front foyer, the stairs. As if he knew where he was going. Someone told him where to go? How the building was set up? It was the most likely scenario.

Sherlock was staring at a muddy footprint on Mrs. Hudson's otherwise spotless floor, surprised that Scotland Yard hadn't destroyed all the evidence. It was a clean tread mark, a workman's boot print. He had been staring at boot prints all day long….

Sherlock stilled, and dove for his mind palace; to the room he kept his recent cases. He searched for the images of the boot prints that had littered the grounds of the nursery he had been at earlier in the day. He opened his eyes back to the kitchen, and overlaid the mental picture of several boot treads from the nursery over the boot mark on the tile. He dismissed several before finding a match. Same size, same type of wearing on the inside of the heel, same stride. The man who had tried to kill Violet had been at his earlier crime scene. Sherlock may have found his killer already.

He felt a vague sense of unease. That was too easy. Most would assume that the killer had seen Sherlock at the nursery, recognized him, and gone ahead to his flat (hard to find someone in London these days who didn't know where he lived), and lain in wait for him to get back, intending to kill him so he couldn't solve the case. If it was anyone other than him working this case, they might just wash their hands of the whole ordeal, calling it done, as the man was dead now.

Sherlock ignored the shadow standing in the kitchen doorway. Mycroft saw what he did, reading the killer's intent to commit murder as easily as Sherlock. The truest mystery to solve was who had been the target. Violet? Why her? She hadn't been with him at the crime scene, she had stayed home. And if anyone with half a brain knew the floor plan of his flat well enough to break in the back door, and go unerringly through Mrs. Hudson's inefficiently laid out flat, up the stairs…. Then they would be smart enough to notice that he and John were not home yet.

So what did his new case have to do with his niece?

"Violet was the target." Sherlock murmured quietly, not really speaking to his brother, but needing to voice the words. The room was dark, the only light from the window over the sink. The snow was still falling, gathering in the corners of the window, frosting in the cold temperatures.

"Are you certain?" Mycroft asked, unmoving from his spot in the doorway.

"Yes, though I don't know why." Sherlock stepped over the print. "The man who attacked Violet was at the crime scene I was at earlier this evening. Double murder, of sorts. First victim brutally murdered by her business partner, who was then poisoned by an as yet unknown substance by an unknown person. Whether the man Violet killed is the killer of my first murderer is now the newest mystery. And why he would chose to kill her, if he was, and not myself and John. If we were the targets, all he had to do was wait another ten minutes for us to get home. She had nothing to do with the case."

"And he was very determined to kill her." Sherlock said softly. "She did him serious damage with my sword, and yet he kept coming at her. Most people, even killers, would have fled after the first few slashes. She wasn't an easy target. She fought back."

"The dead man was at my crime scene, may have contributed to the murder of a nursery owner, then killed the first murderer, and then, while John and I were still at the crime scene, raced back here, and tried to kill my niece before we got home." Sherlock finally met his brother's eyes, diamond bright to deep blue. Sherlock saw the thoughts, the repressed emotions swirling in his mind, and tried to see what his brother was thinking. Mycroft was doing his best not to show his emotional state. Which in itself was a clue. He wouldn't be trying so hard if he was not upset.

"Why does a man break into a person's flat? Burglary, rape, murder, lesser reasons that don't bear mentioning. The big three reasons are what concern me most. If it was burglary, why not steal Mrs. Hudson's silver? She leaves it out for any passing thief to take." Sherlock mused, waving a hand to the nearby silver vase on a counter. He was still talking mostly to himself. Mycroft was present, and he would be a quick substitute for John while the doctor was busy. "Rape? Rapists are cowards. Once he knew she was on the phone calling for help, once she barricaded herself in my bedroom, the second she fought back, he should have been running. Instead, he kept attacking. So, what does that leave? Murder."

"She isn't safe." Sherlock told his brother, and walked past him, leaving Mycroft to stare at the tread mark on the floor. "Someone sent that man here to kill her, someone who doesn't want me find out what happened at that nursery. It's possible her death was meant to be a warning."

"This is all conjecture, of course, but how often am I wrong?" Sherlock's voice faded out as he left his brother alone in the dark, cold kitchen.

Mycroft sighed, and looked out the window. The snow had stopped, the street covered in a blanket of pure white, as far as he could see.

* * *

><p>"Are you sure you don't want me to stitch that up?" John asked Violet, as she rolled her eyes at him, his hands very close to being in no-man's-land on her upper thigh. She had a long shallow gash on her leg, but it wasn't bleeding badly.<p>

"Just leave some of those Band-Aid type butterfly thingies and I'll take care of it after my shower. Which is my not so subtle way of saying, 'thank you, love you bunches, but I'm about to get naked, no man has ever seen that, please leave.'" Violet quipped at him, her attitude clearly recovering quickly after her ordeal. Violet leaned over, and kissed him on the cheek, before making shooing motions towards the door. "I'm sure Anthea can help me if I need it."

Violet cast a perfectly innocent look at the very pretty MI6 operative, who smiled at her. Violet couldn't decipher what that smile meant, but she hadn't argued the point. John sighed, grabbed his medical kit, and stepped out of the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind him.

"You aren't very subtle, are you?" Anthea asked her, and she reached out to help Violet shrug out of her blouse. Violet moaned in despair at the state of the pretty blue silk top, and the fact it was so not possible to get blood out of silk.

"Nope." Violet smiled at her, unsnapping her bra, letting it fall to the floor. "Subtlety is a waste of time and effort."

Anthea didn't even blink at the half naked girl, just tossed the shirt on the counter beside the sink. Violet was attempting to pull off her very tight jeans, and Anthea made her sit on the toilet, and she tugged one leg off at a time for her. Violet bit her lip in pain as the fabric scraped across a cut, and Anthea went quickly, so as not to prolong the experience.

The jeans came off, and Violet sighed loudly in relief, jumping up and out of them, very smoothly kicking off her underwear at the same time. Violet had no trouble being completely naked in front of Anthea. She turned on the water, silently blessing her uncle for having a ridiculously large water heater. Violet hopped in the shower, and grabbed the curtain.

"I'd ask you to join me, but I don't want to presume your relationship with Mycroft is less than what it might be." Violet told the MI6 operative, who had a delightfully surprised and pleased look on her face. "I'm not pressuring, just making it obvious I like you. So there's no confusion."

"Mycroft is very much involved with someone who isn't me." Anthea told her calmly. "But considering what you've just been through, is this wise?"

Violet got all fuzzy and happy in her stomach, before she blinked, a smile gracing her mouth.

"Wise? Hell no. But I thought you were sexy as hell from the first moment I saw you." Violet told Anthea, but she knew that the other woman was right. "But seeing as how there's my entire family out in the front room, not to mention your boss, all waiting to know what happened, putting the moves on you in the shower probably isn't smart."

"Hhmm. I'd have to agree." Anthea told her, but before Violet could have her feelings get hurt, she stepped very close, steam rising between them from the hot water. "But after you tell them what happened? No one said I had to go home."

Violet felt every brain cell in her head die at the exact same instant, the very moment Anthea leaned in, and lightly brushed her lips to hers. Soft and sweet and so hot Violet gasped for air. Anthea held the almost non-kiss for a heartbeat before pulling away. Her eyes were a green so vivid that Violet couldn't see anything but them.

"I'll get you some clothes. Take your shower." Anthea whispered, and she pulled the shower curtain closed for Violet. She nearly had to slap herself in order to move under the spray, reach for the soap.

"Best and worst night ever." Violet whispered to herself as she heard Anthea leave the bathroom.

* * *

><p>John was thinking hard as he helped Mrs. Hudson clean up the blood from the floor in his bedroom. The bathroom door was still relatively intact, and could shut. The glass panel closest to the door handle was shattered, but the door still provided enough privacy for Violet to take a shower.<p>

John had seen Anthea step out a few minutes ago, and she was coming back down the hall, holding an armful of clothing. She must have gone for some clothing for Violet. John had no idea where Sherlock and Mycroft were, but he figured they were still here somewhere. Mycroft at least, as Anthea was still here. John had noticed a very particular type of tension in Violet, and her pulling Anthea into the bathroom with them had been a surprise.

John wasn't biased against Violet's preference for the female sex. His own sister was a lesbian, and it had never bothered him. Hell, he was currently in a very intense and delightfully sexual relationship with a man, so he had no issues with anyone's choice of partners. John felt embarrassed when he realized what was bothering him. He had always seen Anthea as an extension of Mycroft, and never as her own person. He had noticed she was beautiful, and he had felt a mild attraction to her once upon a time, but he had never thought of her as a separate person. Mycroft's shadow, and nothing else.

Anthea slipped back into the bathroom, and John could hear her speak softly to Violet. He couldn't hear what she was saying, but Violet giggled, and he fought off the very big grin that threatened to break his face. If he was surprised, he wondered what Mycroft's reaction might be to the fact his niece was putting some serious moves on his personal assistant.

John felt his worry wash away with the blood on the floor. Violet would be okay. She might be repressing, but he had no doubt that she was resilient enough to handle what had happened here tonight. She was a Holmes through and through. He saw that more every day.

Mrs. Hudson wiped up the last of the blood with the mop, and John carried the bucket out of the room for her. He'd gotten up all the glass, and there was little evidence of what had happened here. Just the broken glass panel in the bathroom door and the boot prints on the bedroom door. John was surprised, and glad, that the old door had withstood that much damage without breaking.

Sherlock was cleaning his sword, sitting at the burned out table as if it were fine. He was wiping away the sticky blood, vinegar and warm water making John's nose twitch. He had never seen Sherlock pay attention to the sword, never seen him take it down. He knew it was from a championship he'd won back when he was a teenager. The sword had been the prize, and John figured Sherlock had to be good, as he got first place.

Sherlock stood, and did some sort of fancy move with the blade that John was sure had name but he couldn't remember. His entire being was absorbed by the absolutely hot and incredibly delicious Sherlock Holmes wielding a sword like he'd been born with one in his hand. John bit his tongue, and dumped the bloody water down the drain. Sherlock was eyeing the blade, paying attention to the whole length. John figured he was looking for nicks or bends in the metal.

"Excellent craftsmanship, John. Didn't suffer one bit from its use." Sherlock murmured without taking his eyes away.

"Not a very good sword if it didn't work as intended." John told him, putting the bucket down and walking over to Sherlock. "I'm glad it was in there, she would have been in trouble if it wasn't."

"Certainly." Sherlock agreed quietly, putting the sword down, letting his doctor in under his arm, flush to his shoulder. They both looked up as the bathroom door opened. Mrs. Hudson pounced as soon as she saw Violet, Anthea right behind her. Sherlock met John's eyes briefly, and John saw the same mirth in his eyes at Violet's current interest. Mycroft would indeed have trouble with this one. Violet bore up well under Mrs. Hudson's hugs and kisses, far better than Sherlock would have.

"Is it too much to ask for me to go to bed? I'm assuming with the total IQ accumulated in the flat that everyone here has a good idea what happened?" Violet was whining, sounding exactly like Sherlock. Anthea was standing at her shoulder, texting. She put her mobile away just as Mycroft came in the flat. Violet was glaring at them, daring any of them to badger her with questions.

No one said anything, and Violet sighed loudly in relief. John's eyes nearly fell on the floor when she grabbed Anthea's hand, and walked to the stairs, right past Mycroft.

"Good night!" Violet called out as she and Anthea climbed the stairs. Anthea paused briefly, and looked over her shoulder at Mycroft.

"The car is waiting for you, sir. Goodnight." Anthea smiled, and followed Violet up the stairs and out of sight.

John pressed his face to Sherlock's shoulder at the utter and complete dumbfounded look on Mycroft's face. The MI6 man just stared up the now empty staircase, coat in one hand, face blank. He blinked, and tore his eyes away. He smiled tightly at the room in general, before walking out of the flat, down the stairs. John was torn between laughing and flinching as Mycroft slammed the front door on his way out.

* * *

><p>Mycroft never saw the three shadows on the far corner of Baker Street. They stood watching, waiting until the black Jaguar of the spymaster drove away. They peeled away one by one from the larger shadow of the building, disappearing down the unlit street.<p>

* * *

><p>Mycroft was in a foul mood. He was glad the rear of the car was dark; he didn't fancy having his driver knowing that his employer was anything but his usual icy self.<p>

He had been terrified when Sherlock hadn't answered his phone. The only information he had gotten from Anthea was that someone was dead after a home invasion at Baker Street. The slim chance it could have been his brother who was dead had made him run from the car as soon as it had stopped outside his brother's flat.

Seeing that it was Violet who was hurt, and the invader dead, had done things to Mycroft that he hadn't expected. Sherlock was alive, and unscathed, whereas his niece had nearly lost her life fighting off the intruder. Her wounds and the state of her clothing had told him just how close she had come to dying. Seeing the dead man in Sherlock's bedroom had opened up a nasty, sick, sinking sensation in his gut, one he equated to dread. He had felt it so strongly only three times before, when he thought he was watching Anthea die, and when DI Lestrade was fighting for his life after being shot. The third was a memory so dark he hadn't the courage to remember it, not on this silent night.

Mycroft was lost, navigating in waters he did not know. He could not see the far shore. Violet was the daughter of the man he loved, and killed. Because he was a monster, the purest incarnation of evil Mycroft had ever known. His daughter, though not him, carried his blood. Mycroft's blood, Sherlock's blood. The potential for madness was in them all. He did not begrudge her saving her own life. She had done what was necessary to live. But the manner in which she had…

Mycroft flashed back to a hot summer day long ago, the woman dead on the dry barren earth, blood making mud at his brother's feet. Sherrinford holding the knife. His eyes. Mycroft would never forget those eyes. As unique and lovely as his daughter's.

Mycroft wiped as hand across his face, banishing the memory of his dead brother. She was not her father. She was annoying, and precocious, and had no concept of legality (which he had taken advantage of numerous times), but she was not evil.

Mycroft had no idea of what to make of Anthea's decision to stay with Violet. He hadn't gotten even the slightest hint from her that she had romantic interest in his niece. But then, he never thought of her having an interest outside of the work, and him…..

"Home, sir?" His driver asked him, driving through the nearly empty streets of London. The city was sleeping peacefully under its blanket of white.

"Yes…Actually, no." Mycroft changed his mind. There was somewhere he wanted to be. Needed to be. "Take me to St Bart's."

"Yes, sir." His driver changed course, taking Mycroft to the hospital, where certain DI was recovering.

* * *

><p>Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was doing his best to sleep. He really was trying. He did his utmost to be a good patient, not giving the nurses or doctors any trouble. He suppressed his impatience, bit back his complaints, and followed directions. And he was doing it all so that a certain government man wouldn't worry. So he could leave this wretched place, the sooner the better.<p>

Greg tried to get comfortable past the pain. His side and lower abdomen and back hurt like hell. He was taking medication for the pain, but he wasn't taking as much as the doctors were offering. He was months away from recovering. Months of physical therapy and pain and frustration. Not to mention he might get invalided out of Scotland Yard, if he didn't recover enough to get back out on the streets. He wasn't meant for a desk job, his heart wasn't in it. He was in that perfect place of being the boss, but still being able to take the cases he wanted.

He was lucky, he knew that. He nearly died on the roof of the hospital he was in. That bomb had been minutes from going off, killing everyone, himself included. He knew when he charged off of that fire escape onto the roof that he might die. He never even felt the bullet as it ripped through his body. He hadn't stopped, killing two of the guards before disarming the bomb. He remembered turning it off. That was it. After the bomb was disarmed, he remembered nothing.

All he could recall was a great grey expanse, and whispers that came to him from the nothingness. Whispers from people he knew, that called to him, asking him to stay. It was so clear. They had told him that he had died on the table. The doctors had managed to get his body back alive, but Greg had a horrible, terrifying thought stuck in his mind. He was certain that while his body may have lived, his soul had left it. He had been dead, and willing to stay dead. Until he heard a voice that made him fight to live.

"Gregory?" His eyes flew open in surprise, hearing the voice he had just been thinking of. He gasped, wrapping an arm around his stomach. The pain was sickening, and he breathed through it as best he could.

The small light beside his bed turned ton, and he saw the patrician features of Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft was eyeing him, seeing his struggle and knowing instantly he was in pain.

"Why aren't you taking your medication?" he asked, settling in the chair he always sat in, to his right.

"Don't like the way it makes me feel." Greg gasped out, breathing slow, relaxing as the pain faded. He smiled wryly at the exasperation on Mycroft's face.

Mycroft never bothered anymore to hide his feelings, not when it was just the two of them. Greg saw the tired, stressed plans of his face, the small lines beside his eyes. Mycroft wasn't looking at him, eyes fixed at some distant point, fingers idly picking at the arm of his chair. He only ever fidgeted when he was dealing with something emotional.

"What happened?" Greg asked him. He rarely came this late.

"Someone broke into Baker Street, attacked Violet." Mycroft told him, eyes still far off and vague. "She killed him."

"What? Oh God, is she alright? Where were the guys at?" Greg tried to sit up, but he groaned in pain instead, putting both arms down and holding himself carefully. Mycroft was standing over him, and Greg blinked back the tears that came unwanted to his eyes. He didn't want to cry in front of this man. Not Mycroft.

Long, cool fingers brushed over his cheek, a thumb wiping away a stray tear. Greg gave up, and turned his face into Mycroft's palm. He breathed through the pain, the gentle pressure from Mycroft's hand an anchor for him.

"Violet has some superficial injuries. Sherlock and Dr Watson were at a crime scene. She killed the intruder with my brother's sword." Greg thought he misheard that last part, but Mycroft wasn't one to make jokes like that. "She will be fine."

"Good." Greg whispered. He tried talking some more, but couldn't.

"Perhaps you should stay in the hospital, Gregory." Mycroft murmured to him, his thumb still gently rubbing his cheek. "If you go home to recuperate, you'll most likely overdo things, and end up back here."

"I want out of here. I'm going insane." Greg growled softly. "I'm not used to doing nothing. I'm not built to be idle."

"So overdoing it will be your solution to restlessness?" Mycroft queried, and Greg scowled at him. Man could be annoying sometimes, he really could. "In my considered opinion, you going home to your flat is a very stupid idea."

Mycroft was serenely calm at the narrowed eyed glare Greg tossed him. He wasn't staying in this wretched place any longer than he had to.

"The solution is simple, really." Mycroft got a small, wicked smile on his face. "You will come home with me."

* * *

><p>The air was so cold, so dry, that the blood froze before it even finished falling. Small droplets skipped across the snow, settling in a rain of deep crimson, brilliant over the pure white snowflakes. The trees were silent witness to the brutal death under their branches. The wind was dead, as dead as the rapidly cooling body that crumpled to the ground. Snow fluttered up from the ground at the impact, dusting the black clothing of the useless fool now dead at his feet. A fool who was not alone under the trees. Another body was farther under the dead branches, and they would keep each other company until some lucky soul found them in the morning.<p>

"Sir?" Asked the timid voice of his servant, sniveling from his knees behind him. The third fool had been spared, and his groveling made it clear how very thankful he was.

"Are you interrupting me?" The Master Chemist demanded, shifting on his feet in the cold snow. The knife he held in his hand was steaming in the cold air, blood freezing as it fell from the edge.

"I…. forgive me, Master. Holmes the elder has left Baker Street. He has not placed additional protection on his brother's residence." His servant planted his face in the snow as his master turned, a snow white handkerchief out, wiping away the blood on the blade. The blood stained the pristine fabric, and he tossed it aside.

"Good." The Master stared out across Hyde Park, the trees and lawns covered by a glittering blanket of snow and ice. It would not last long, this lovely and pure expanse. Soon the sun would rise, and melt it all away. "Then we shall try again. But next time, my dear Peter, perhaps you will send better men? Ones who don't partake of my product?"

Peter flinched with his entire body, knowing better than to raise his head. His master would give him leave to rise. Until then, he would gladly freeze to death on his knees.

"Yes, Master. Forgive me." Peter whimpered, seeing his master's boots out of the corner of his eye. "The next ones will follow directions."

"And?" His master whispered, bending over him, the knife tracing its cold path along the back of his neck.

"They will be clean, and follow directions." Peter gasped out. "They will not fail."

Peter jerked as the blade was lifted away, and his master's boots disappeared from view. He stayed where he was, waiting.

"Come, Peter. The night grows colder." His master's voice drifted through the darkness. Peter leapt to his feet, dashing after the swiftly disappearing shadow of John Woodley, The Master Chemist of London.

He spared no further thought for the dead man under the trees. He and his partner had failed in their mission, and Sherlock Holmes was on the case. Holmes had his life, and his niece. Both things the Master wanted, too.


	39. Chemistry Lessons

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**WARNING: OMG the feels. Things are about to get volatile. And messy.**

**And because I love you all, I decided to introduce my other bad guy in this chapter. Poor Sherlock! **

**Read, enjoy, review!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirty Nine<strong>

"_**Chemistry Lessons"**_

"What do you mean, he's going to be there?" Her fiancé asked. The annoyance in his voice was clear despite his face being buried in his pillow.

"It's his case, he does his work at my lab. Of course he's there." Molly told Tom as she got dressed in the dark. She had gotten a text from Sherlock just a few minutes prior, telling her he had some work for her, and that he would be there soon. 'There' being the pathology lab at St Bart's where she worked, and Tom seemed to be having trouble grasping that. It was five in the morning, so she could understand. She wasn't due to get up for another hour, and he slept until ten most mornings.

"But why does _he have to be there?" _Tom whined, lifting his face to glare at her. She sighed in exasperation, unsure of what was bothering him so much about Sherlock. She wasn't dating him, after all. She was engaged now. She thought she was, at least. Tom hadn't been acting much like a fiancé since she had been kidnapped the month before. He was reserved, remote, with occasional bursts of anger. Like now.

"What's wrong, Tom?" Molly asked, tying her shoe laces. She grabbed her coat from the hook on the back of the door, and waited for his answer.

"You go running whenever he summons you, and he isn't even your boss. Man doesn't even work for the hospital, yet he dictates your time!" Tom snapped, rolling over, tossing the blanket past his ears, ending the conversation.

"But…" She tried to talk, but he sat up, throwing the blankets off.

"Go on then! Get out, go see your detective!" Tom got out of bed, heading for the bathroom, and he slammed the door shut behind him.

Molly just stared at the door, unsure of what exactly she had done wrong. This is what she did. She went to work, and when she could, she helped Sherlock. Her regular work for the hospital and Scotland Yard never suffered for it, and she helped solve crimes with the world's best detective. The world's only consulting detective.

Molly bit her lip, hard. She didn't know where this animosity was coming from. She had told him while they were first dating all about Sherlock, and the work she did with him. And then once Sherlock came home, she had told Tom all about the scheme to convince the world that Sherlock was dead in order to defeat Moriarty. She hadn't told him how Sherlock faked his death, just the why. She figured if Sherlock wanted people to know, he would have responded to the million questions posed to him by reporters in the last two months. She hadn't held back anything really important. And then Sherlock had saved the world again, twice in one month. Never mind she got kidnapped by her ex-boyfriend's crazy sister. She was okay now.

_He's acting like he's jealous. But I'm over Sherlock. And he's got John now, anyway. Sherlock is my friend._

She sighed, and left the bedroom, confused and hurt. Maybe she'd have a better day at the hospital. She brightened as she left her flat, a bounce in her step. Seeing Sherlock Holmes would make any woman's day.

* * *

><p>Anthea gazed at the slumbering face of Violet Hunter, endearing and striking despite the bruises and cut lip. The sun was still a few hours from rising, but Anthea usually got up at this time anyway. Her internal clock was telling her it was around five a.m.<p>

Anthea stretched, feeling relaxed and content for the first time in over a month. She grabbed her neoprene sleeve from the nightstand, slipping it back over her wrist and hand. It was flesh tone and had two stiff braces in it to support her hand and wrist; many people didn't even notice it. Her wrist and hand were recovering nicely, in no small part due to the wonderful skill of Dr. Watson. Her surgeons had told her that if John hadn't helped her when he did, she may have lost the use of her hand. She owed much to Dr. John Watson.

Anthea slipped from bed where she had been sleeping beside Violet, and quietly got dressed. She spied Violet's mobile on the nightstand, and send her a text in lieu of writing a note. She was glad it was on Vibrate, not wanting to wake the poor girl. Anthea smiled wryly at herself; this 'girl', while younger than she, knew exactly what she was doing in bed.

**Have to go to work. I like you too. Call me? -Anthea**

Anthea carried her heels, and slipped silently from the room, taking the stairs without making a noise. She peered around the open kitchen door, and smiled at the two men eating at the charred remains of the table. At least, Dr Watson was eating. Sherlock was letting John steal his bagel as he zoned himself out.

"Good morning." She murmured, impishly delighted when John choked on his strawberry jam-covered bagel. She didn't let her mask of serenity slip, laughing behind her tiny smile. His face got a faint red hue on the cheeks, and he was doing his best not to stare at her, and failing. Sherlock just grunted something that vaguely sounded like good morning. He probably didn't even realize he was talking to her. He had that look on his face that implied he wasn't available for human interaction.

"Oh, um good morning….excuse me…" John coughed, taking a sip of his tea and finally swallowing his bagel. "How's Violet?"

His face got even redder, and she thought about taking pity on him. Thought about it, but decided not to, this was too much fun. Her smile was serene as she came in the room, leaning on the sooty table as she put on her heels.

"Violet is exceptional…. And sleeping." Anthea winked at John, and his jaw slowly unhinged itself to hang open. He didn't even breathe, the poor man. "You two look like you're going out. I'm assuming you aren't planning on leaving Violet alone all day, are you? Not after what happened."

John and Sherlock both blinked at each other, before turning back to her, guilty expressions on their faces. Well, John's at least, Sherlock rarely felt guilty about anything.

"We thought that since you and she were…." John started to mumble, stopping as she narrowed her green eyes at him.

"We had sex, yes. That doesn't mean she wants me to be her babysitter, Dr Watson." She stated with one brow quirked. "Not to mention I happen to live and work with Mycroft, the man who has no desire to spend time with his brother's daughter?"

"Are they planning my future again?" Violet groused as she stumbled into the kitchen, mobile in hand. She ignored her uncle and John, and tugged Anthea around, planting a very non-niece-like kiss on her lips. She pulled back just a hair, and rubbed their noses together. "I'm happy you like me back, and I'll call you for certain."

Violet let her go, spinning around her and heading for the fridge, opening the door. Anthea just sighed quietly, not letting on how much she was enjoying the very surprised and delighted expressions on John's face. Violet was bouncy and happy, humming loudly and beautifully on-key, not caring one bit she was wearing next to nothing, robe all askew.

Violet didn't even flinch at the human arm sitting on a platter in the center of the fridge. She just reached past it for the milk, slamming the door shut. Violet made her coffee, ignoring John as he did his best not to stare. Anthea repressed a giggle, thinking that poor John was in for some more surprises the longer the Holmes scion lived with them.

Anthea's mobile vibrated, and she checked the screen. Her car was here. Mycroft was starting his day as well.

"I must be off, Mycroft has sent for me." Anthea accepted a tiny kiss from Violet as she bounced back over to her, balancing her freshly made coffee in one hand. "Bye, call me."

Violet winked at her, sipping her coffee. Anthea turned away, shrugging into her coat, laughing when she heard Violet wolf whistle at her as she walked down the stairs.

* * *

><p>"John, you'll have better success drinking your tea if you pick up your jaw from the table top." Sherlock said, wide awake and zoned in. John was dabbing at his wet chin, having forgotten how to drink while being distracted by two beautiful women snogging in his kitchen. Sherlock ignored the glare his lover sent his way, unperturbed.<p>

John was most assuredly bisexual. Sherlock was certain, but as of yet he hadn't seen John exhibit attraction for another male, other than himself. He'd keep watching just to confirm. If he didn't, then Sherlock would just put down John's sexual preferences as 'undefined'. Not that it mattered, really. John loved him, and wanted him. He was just curious. Everything about John Watson was important to Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock turned his attention to Violet, who was humming, eyes half shut, sipping her coffee as she leaned on the table. The elbows of her robe were getting turned black by the tabletop, but she didn't notice. Or care.

"Violet." Sherlock said, making her snap from her happy post-coital daze.

"Hmmm?" She hummed at him, sipping away.

"We are about to depart for St Bart's, go get dressed. Twenty minutes." Sherlock told her. "Unless you wish to go dressed in just your robe. John wouldn't mind."

John swatted at his shoulder, and Sherlock grinned at his doctor past his cup. Violet laughed so hard she split her cut lip again, and she walked back up the stairs to her room, alternating between giggling and gasping as her lip stung.

* * *

><p>Violet napped in the cab, snug between John and Sherlock, her bag in her lap. She had brought all her toys, expecting a long day of sitting around in a lab, watching Molly and Sherlock talk about things she had no clue about. John would be leaving for work at some time in the morning, while Sherlock and Molly processed evidence.<p>

Violet dozed, snuggling with John's very well-muscled shoulder. She didn't know what he did for exercise, but whatever it was, it was working. John always let her snuggle without complaint, though sometimes he would get a funny look on his face. She thought it was cute, so she kept doing it. Sherlock didn't care one bit who she snuggled with. And Violet found herself needing the snuggling, the aches and pains fading away under the comfort. Her night had been horrible and wonderful, and she just wanted a moment of quiet, to hit the reset button.

She'd snuggle with Sherlock, but she didn't want to push it. She had no personal space issues, really. As long as things didn't go sexual, she had no issues snuggling with men whatsoever. She preferred it sometimes, men having higher body heat temperatures and all. Though most men she became friends with always took her snuggling the wrong way. Except for John. He was a snuggler, too.

Sherlock let her touch him, quick hugs and a hand through his curls. Him holding her the night before had been the most contact they'd had since the day he told her who she was.

He was more emotional, more accessible, since John Watson had entered his life. The cold, analytical, petulant child was evolving, becoming a more mature, emotionally mercurial man who was almost, occasionally, close to normal. Sometimes. He still had his moments of complete and utter asshole-ness, but she didn't mind, and neither did John. And he did seem more of a child than an adult in most social situations. And he was still resoundingly ignorant on some matters. So she might have to reevaluate her opinion on him being more mature.

His mind was sharper than ever, and he didn't stray too far into manic depressions and obsessive behaviors like he used to. Unless you counted his obsession with John Watson. But he had always been obsessed with John, so that wasn't unusual for him. There was an indefinable quality to this Sherlock Holmes that had been absent from the young man she first met over a decade ago. He was better, and worse, all at the same time. He was a perfect collection of imperfection. To paraphrase John, Sherlock was the most 'human' person she had ever met.

John sighed into her hair, and she snuggled closer, wrapping an arm under his, burying her nose in his coat. He smelled like breakfast tea and mints, and she caught a whiff of Sherlock's hair product.

"Is she sleeping again?" John asked Sherlock over her head.

"Lucky her, she did have a busy night. Why are we going to Bart's at this ungodly hour again?" Sherlock groaned.

"Because you were too excited to sleep and you wanted to find out what the toxin was that killed the crazy gardener." John told him, his voice loving and exasperated at the same time. She smiled, content to let them talk over her head.

"Oh." Sherlock turned back to his window. The sun was an hour away from rising, but London was already awake. Traffic wasn't too bad at this time of morning, but the snow was making things slightly problematic. Everyone forgot how to drive the second it began to snow, slowing down traffic to a near crawl.

Violet slipped further into sleep, and she didn't notice when John smiled down at her, pressing a self-conscious kiss to her silky hair.

* * *

><p>John Woodley thrust deeper, faster, chasing his orgasm, riding the whore under him hard. He groaned, jerking as he came, pulsing deep. Woodley exhaled, and rolled off the woman beneath him, sated. She shivered as he pulled away, curling under the covers. He forgot her as soon as she did, staring up at the ceiling in his private suite of Claridge's Hotel. He had been using her all night since leaving Hyde Park, but she hadn't been enough. He had chosen her because of her looks, obviously; her dark hair and deep blue eyes close enough to his obsession it had taken off the edge. The whore was his last ditch effort in calming down. But while his body may be fulfilled, his anger threatened to override his control.<p>

Detesting sweat and hating how the sheets clung to him, Woodley got out of king-sized bed, waving a hand idly in dismissal. The woman slipped from his bed, grabbing her dress and shoes as she went. Woodley would call her back if he had another urge, the staff knew to keep track of her. He stepped into his bathroom, indifferent as she limped from the room. He turned on all the shower heads in the large, marble and glass stall, water spraying out instantly hot from every corner.

Woodley let the spray do all the work, washing away his frustration. The whore may have taken off the edge, but he was fighting a losing battle with his anger. Contemplating his current problem was merely making him angrier.

Sherlock Holmes had stumbled across the fringes of his enterprise, and if the man kept looking, then he would most certainly see the whole of it. He was too close to fulfilling his goals to have some self-proclaimed consulting detective with a god complex stop him now.

So he had sent his minions to put a quick end to Holmes' interference, but what his people had reported back was enough to almost make being discovered well worth the risk. Sherlock Holmes had something John Woodley wanted, very badly. Something he had wanted for a long time now. It was lucky in many ways that the junkies sent to Baker Street had failed.

When he had leaned just who Sherlock Holmes had living under his roof, Woodley knew his goals were nearer to fruition than he had dreamed. The universe had always loved John Woodley, and finding the gorgeous and brilliant Violet Hunter had merely proved it yet again.

The law abiding citizens of the world may see Violet Hunter as the long lost niece of England's most famous private citizen, but those who lived on the darker side of the law knew who she really was. And even then, those who knew were an elite company. She was very selective in whom she took on as a client. Violet Hunter was the world's foremost hacker and programmer. Anything that you could think of, she could do. As long as you could afford her prices; she wasn't cheap. Getting ahold of her through the usual back channels took time, and money. He had been tracking her for a year now, and had nearly gotten the US government to hand her over three months prior. But she had slipped away before his procurer could catch her, and she had reemerged here in London, under the protective graces of her long-lost family.

He wasn't willing to part with more of his hard earned money for her to do a job for him, when he could just have the girl. His father had always told him: it was better to have the goose that laid the golden egg, rather than a single egg. And with Violet Hunter under his thumb, he'd have all the damn golden omelets he could want.

His men had blown the attempt to get her the night before. Peter had chosen the wrong people, sending in junkies high on his product. The drugs weren't refined yet at the stage they had been used, and every person's reactions were different. Either you went batshit crazy, or walked around in a stupor for over a day. Or you died, in a horrible, disgusting fashion. He had ordered her kidnapping, but the man sent in had an adverse reaction to the drugs, and descended into madness, nearly killing her instead. The others had left once it was clear she was still alive, and that the man sent in was dead.

Woodley wondered how she survived, as all of his research on he had said that while highly intelligent and adaptive, Violet Hunter had no skills whatsoever in self-defense. He thought it likely the drugs had incapacitated the junkie enough for her to kill him, which was more believable than the report filed by the Yard saying she had fought him off with a sword.

Peter was lucky he was needed after the previous day's colossal fuckup; not many junkies retained the balls to tell him unpleasant news. And Woodley loved the way he groveled. Not to mention Hannibal liked to torture him.

Woodley turned off the water, grabbing a towel as he walked out of the bathroom.

"Master." Peter hurried away from the bed, hands behind his back. He kept his head down, shoulders hunched.

_Not again, the fucking deviant!_

Woodley stopped, and narrowed his eyes at his servant. He was avoiding eye contact, which was proper, but he seemed very intent on not showing his hands for some reason. Sighing in disgust, Woodley grabbed a nearby vase full of roses, and hurled it at Peter's head. The weight of the roses and the water made it wobble in flight, saving Peter from getting a cracked skull as the heavy porcelain smashed into his chest instead. It didn't shatter, just sprayed water and thorn shrouded roses everywhere before thudding to the floor.

Peter fell back, landing on his ass, hands braced on the floor, revealing the strip of red cloth in one hand. Peter had the unfortunate habit of collecting women's underwear. Not to wear himself, but to keep. To play with, carry around in his nasty pockets. He especially liked the ones worn by the women his master fucked. Woodley strode over to Peter, and kicked him, hard. His foot caught the junkie in the kidney, making him cry out, gagging. Woodley pulled his foot back to kick again, but Peter curled in on himself, stammering apologies.

"Fucking pervert." Woodley snarled, walking away from the junkie huddling on the wet floor. "Pick that up, then tell me what you came in here for. And if you say it was to collect that fucking memento, then I'll feed you to my dog faster than my momma could spit."

His Rottweiler Hannibal perked up in the far corner, where he was gnawing on a large rawhide bone. Peter shrank back, and reached for the spilled flowers, one eye on the monstrous beast as he chewed on the tough leather. Hannibal was sixty kg of pure unadulterated muscle, and had the temperament of a nasty, spoiled, bloodthirsty child who delighted in tearing the heads off of dolls. And he was staring at Peter like he was the most delicious doll he'd ever seen.

Woodley went to his dressing room, his feet soundless on the thick, luxurious carpeting in the suite. The deep creams and succulent beiges of the carpeting was complimented by the deep red of the wood furniture, the soft blue walls. The dressing room was as large as the master bedroom, full of clothing he could spend a lifetime wearing. Most if it he would never wear; he had ordered his closets to be full of designer clothes, paying an exorbitant amount for some stranger to dress him. The result had been a never ending array of suits and formal wear, ridiculous jackets and scarves. What the fuck was a Westwood, anyway? But he knew better than to wear his rough denims and beat up jumpers. The most powerful drug lord in London had an image to project, and looking like a dock worker wasn't part of it.

He was a large man, all muscles and no fat to spare. He worked out daily, refusing to become soft at the easy living he was enjoying. His former boss had gotten lazy, and that laziness had let Woodley steal his empire out from under him. With just a small amount of help from a certain dead consulting criminal of course, but no one else knew that. And he had no intention of telling anyone, either.

He couldn't help his humble, brutal beginnings as a thug breaking bones for loan sharks, but he had changed his future. After taking over the drug scene in London from his former employer, Woodley had quickly stripped away as much of his rough exterior as possible. He kept the tattoos and scars covered, and dressed only in the best clothes. He'd dress like a spoiled trust fund prick if it kept the old rumors at bay. He was a well-respected businessman now, and he had to be above reproach. In public at least, and in the eyes of the law. What the world didn't know, wouldn't hurt him any.

Woodley grabbed the nearest suit, ignoring the sobbing junkie cleaning up the mess in the bedroom. He dressed, pleased when he heard Peter swear quietly as the thorns from the roses stabbed his hands. Hannibal growled; his deep rumble was loud even in the dressing room. Peter shut up, and Woodley grinned as his dog minded the junkie in the other room. Hannibal had no patience for the junkies his master surrounded himself with; snapping regularly whenever one was foolish enough to step too close.

Peter finished just as Woodley left the dressing room, dropping the roses in a wastebasket, hands bleeding from numerous tiny thorn marks. The slip of red fabric was out of sight, presumably in the freak's pocket. Woodley snapped his fingers, and Hannibal leapt up from his bed in the corner, lumbering over to put his head under his master's hand. Peter gulped, eyeing the dog as Woodley stroked the great head. Hannibal sniffed loudly, scenting the blood from the tiny cuts on Peter's hands.

"Why are you here?" Woodley asked, tugging on Hannibal's ears, the dog leaning on his leg.

"Master. The police are still collecting evidence at the nursery, and Holmes has left his flat with his niece and his partner, heading for St Bart's. He appears to still be on the case. We have been assured from our contacts in Scotland Yard that he has not yet begun work on the evidence. We believe he will be at the hospital for the majority of the day. Do you wish for us to try again?"

"What, kill Sherlock Holmes and kidnap his niece from a hospital with hundreds of potential witnesses? I think not. The hospital is still overrun with police, not to mention MI6. Put a tail on them. I want to know where they are at every moment of the day." Woodley scratched Hannibal's ears, his dog leaning harder on his leg the deeper he rubbed. "Besides, he won't find much from the evidence; it's been too long, it'll break down soon enough."

"Yes, Master." Peter dipped his head, and hesitated. "I was informed as well that Mr. Williamson is on his way to London. His private jet is expected to land sometime this evening."

Woodley stilled, and Hannibal shifted at his feet. The dog growled softly, sensing his master's sudden mood change. Peter shrank back, hands going up, torn between fearing his master, and the beast.

"Perhaps you should have told me that sooner?" Woodley growled, sounding exactly like his dog.

"I… well, yes. My apologies, master. I was informed that his business has nothing to do with your arrangement. He comes to London on a separate matter, with official orders from the CIA." Peter's voice was shaking, and he waited anxiously to see if his master would let the brute eat his face off.

Woodley's tension eased, and the dog relaxed enough to sit. Woodley ignored Peter, thinking hard. For Williamson to leave the United States was rare. Whatever prompted him to do so must be major. Official duties, how interesting. There was something here he wanted.

_The Vicar is coming to London. I wonder what could be important enough to get him to leave Langley._

"Send him my greetings through our usual channels. Discretely and politely, Peter." Woodley ordered, Peter nodding exuberantly in relief.

"I'll be visiting the labs after lunch. Make sure the car is ready." Peter bowed awkwardly, backing from the room. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Um… nowhere. My apologies, sir. What else may I do for you?" Peter was dreading the words he knew were coming. Every time he came here, it was the same thing.

"Hannibal needs his walk." Woodley laughed as Peter paled, Hannibal getting to his feet. No matter the dog, every one of them the world over loved to go for walks. "His lead is on the door; do make sure he doesn't eat anyone's pet this time."

Peter shivered, but did as ordered. Woodley waved a hand at the dog, which ran excitedly for the door. They left, Hannibal dragging the slim excuse for man behind him out the suite. Woodley moved to the far side of the room. He pulled a painting from the wall, revealing the safe behind it. He spun in the combination, opening the heavy door. He reached in, and pulled out a beige manila folder. There was a picture stapled to the outside flap, and he stared at it, entranced.

She was remarkable, Violet Hunter. Raven dark hair, beautiful amethyst eyes, lightly tanned skin and the brilliance of a genius. She had inherited her family's penchant for intelligence, in its full measure. She would soon be his, along with the billions of dollars she would make him.

* * *

><p>Sherlock walked down the long hall to the pathology lab, noting as he did the lights on within. Molly was there already. John and Violet were bringing up the rear, the good doctor charmed into carrying Violet's bag for her. All she did was slip just the tiniest bit on the sidewalk in the snow, and John had practically ripped the bag from her shoulder. Violet smiled at him, and took his arm, letting John play escort.<p>

Dawn was on its way, the horizon lighting up slowly. It was meant to be warmer today than the day before, melting the first snowfall before midday.

Sherlock burst into the lab, startling his favorite pathologist as she was shrugging into her lab coat. Sherlock just grinned at Molly, and tossed his coat at the coatrack beside the door.

"Has the evidence been sent over?" Sherlock asked Molly, his way of saying hello and good morning all rolled into one. She nodded, and pointed to the table, where a single box sat next to his preferred microscope.

Sherlock eyed the younger woman as he rolled up his sleeves, pushing his jacket back to his elbows. John and Violet came in, having taken their time walking the hall. Violet just waved a casual greeting, heading for the small office of the lab. John grabbed a seat at the table, pulling out his mobile and doing something.

Molly was quiet. She usually was, just hovering at his elbow, watching him work. She was always willing to help, knowing what he needed, wanted before he had to voice it, and she never bored him. Yet this morning she was avoiding eye contact, twirling her engagement ring, and biting her lip. She had gotten dressed in the dark going by the state of her shoelaces. Which meant Sherlock had woken her from her bed that morning with his text. She didn't sleep alone, so he most likely woke the man she lived with as well.

_Fiancé troubles. What was his name again? Terry, Todd, something boring…. Tom. I think._

Sherlock sat in her chair, using her microscope as he always did. It was the best one in the lab by far. Molly sat in the stool next to him, elbows on the table, picking at her nails. She did that when she was thinking about something unpleasant. He let her be, focusing on the box next to him. He gave it five minutes before she started in on what was bothering her. She reached out, pulling a notepad and pencil over for him, sliding it to his nearest hand without saying a word. She was moving on autopilot, their habits of working together for so long deeply ingrained.

Sherlock pulled out the small baggies of evidence, tossing aside the irrelevant ones until he found Donovan's glove, the one that had the film on it from grabbing the door handle. He took the latex gloves Molly handed his way, snapping them on without a word. She gave him a pair of shears, and he cut open the evidence bag, pulling out the leather glove. He examined every centimeter of it, saving the shiny film for last.

Molly sighed quietly beside him, so low he almost didn't catch it. He didn't put down the glove, but he snuck a quick look at her from the corner of his eye. She would usually be sitting next to him, watching his every move. She was assisting as usual, no fault there, but her attention was so obviously elsewhere. Her thoughts were so chaotic he could almost hear them bashing against his own eardrums.

"You are exceptionally distracted, Molly." Sherlock stated, dropping the glove. He did his best not to show his irritation. In fact, he was doing his best not to be irritated. It was hard, but he was trying. He couldn't very well call her a friend, and then be unfriendly. At least he thought that's how it worked.

"Sorry." Molly sighed again, louder. She bit her lip so hard Sherlock was surprised it wasn't bleeding.

He rolled his eyes, and figured he might as well solve the emotional mystery before the case.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock peeled off his gloves, tossing them to the table.

He hid his instinctive flinch as she looked at him in surprise. She was still expecting him to be his former cold and remote self with her, and old habits die hard. He smiled at her, trying to have it be supportive or whatever it was he was supposed to be for this sort of thing. She appeared wary, and he mentally cursed himself for not trying hard enough. He scared her off, she might mope all day and he couldn't have that. Not to mention a small part of him was fighting the urge to go find a certain doppelgänger fiancé and beat the ever-living snot out of him. For that man was obviously why she was upset, and no one messed with Molly Hooper but Sherlock Holmes.

"Oh. Um….." She was about to say 'nothing', and he glared at her. She sighed, and dropped her head in her hands. "Tom."

"Well, yes, obviously. Elaborate." Sherlock ordered, turning to her completely, giving up on work for the moment. Sherlock ignored John, who was watching very intently, most likely thinking he'd have to intervene and save Molly if Sherlock got too out of hand. But Sherlock had been practicing making small talk, (in his head), and felt he could do this.

"He was upset with me this morning." She mumbled, not looking at him. Her hair obscured her face, and he told himself reaching out to move it so he could see her expression might not be a good idea. "Because you asked me to come in early to help you with a case."

"Why would that bother him? I've been doing that for years." Sherlock took her willingness to aid him on cases as a given. He knew she enjoyed it, even he could see that. And he knew she was in love him, too. But they had managed to ignore that for the last few years, and he had been relieved when she found someone more normal to love. Someone who wasn't a sociopath. She deserved better than him. He couldn't be what she wanted.

"He was just very upset that it was you. He's been upset since you came back, since we went solving cases together that one day, and since I was kidnapped by my ex-boyfriend's little sister because she was mad at you." Molly said all of that in a mad rush, her words tumbling but easy enough to understand. "I think he's jealous of you. I don't know why. It's not like you and I ever….."

She trailed off, her cheeks getting red, eyes sadder. He was horrified for a split second that she would start to cry. She just shrugged at him, and went back to picking at her nails.

"No, we've never….." Sherlock murmured, realizing he had no clue what to say or do. He had an unexpected thought. "Did you tell him that I kissed you?"

John Watson spilled out of his chair so fast he dropped his mobile. He bent over to pick it up, hitting his head on the edge of the table as he came back up. He slapped a hand to his head, rubbing it while trying not to make it obvious he had heard. Molly and Sherlock both stared at him, wondering what in the world was wrong with the man. John blinked, and opened and shut his mouth a few times before mumbling something unintelligible. He sat back down in his chair, pretending (badly) not to be listening, playing on his mobile. Sherlock just shook his head, and looked back at Molly.

"No, I didn't tell him. It was just twice on the cheek, anyway. No big deal." Molly blushed, and smiled the first truly happy smile at him he'd seen since he came in. He smiled back at her, relieved to see a faint glimmer in her eyes. Molly was too sad, too often. If she needed a kiss on the cheek to make her smile, he'd give her one every day.

"Oh. Hhhmmmm." Sherlock thought hard, wondering what else would prompt her fiancé to suddenly take him in aversion. He'd only met the man once. "Did he see your goodbye video?"

"Oh, no." Molly stammered, blush fading at the mention of her forced farewell video, thinking she was dying, and confessing her everlasting love to him as she did. "I haven't even seen that!"

"Well, yes, never mind. Classified and all." Sherlock was stumped. But he refused to give up. He hated giving up.

Sherlock ignored the loud sigh from John's end of the table. Sherlock knew he was missing something obvious, but as this whole thing was an emotional issue, Sherlock was swimming in uncharted waters. He understood John, and how he felt about him. He knew John loved him; it was so clear and powerful. Thinking about John loving him reminded him that Molly loved him, in much the same way.

This epiphany was painful, compared to his usual ones, the ones that gave him a high better than any cocaine he'd ever used. This time it made his eyes sting, his fingers go cold.

_Oh Molly. He's jealous because he knows you're still in love with me. You love me more than him. And you let me back in your life as if I never left. To you, and you alone, I was not dead, so you never mourned, never let me go. You can't let me go._

Sherlock tossed a look at John, asking him silently to give him a moment. John met his gaze, the doctor solemn and understanding. He got up, and went to the small office where Violet was working, closing the door behind him. Sherlock turned back to Molly, who wasn't looking at him, avoiding his eyes like a child expecting a lecture.

"Is it because you are in love with me?" Sherlock asked her gently. Her eyes flew to his, glimmering with tears, her lip bruised from biting it.

"I think so…..." She whispered, and the tears spilled over. Her face scrunched up, and she pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. She tried to get up, but Sherlock grabbed her carefully, pulling her to his chest. Hugging her may not be the best idea, but she was so sad. She burrowed her head under his chin, and he held her thin frame as she sobbed out her pain.

Sherlock didn't speak. What could he say to her? He wasn't for her, his heart and soul belonged to one man, his doctor. He loved her, but not the way she wished. She knew all of this, having confronted it as she thought she was dying.

Sherlock had a thought, an option before him that was unpleasant and went against everything he wanted from his life. But for her, he would do it. For Molly Hooper, he would walk away. Excise his presence from her world, so she could move on. Find love with someone who could give her what she needed.

"Molly….." Sherlock whispered in her ear. "Do you want me to go? Leave?"

"What?" She gasped out, her tears wetting his neck. He didn't mind. She'd cried on him before.

"You love me. I can't love you back, not like that. Do you want me to leave? I'll do my work in one of the other labs; get Scotland Yard to give me access to another pathologist. I'll go, completely. So you can move on." Sherlock coughed as she tightened her grip on him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"_NO._" She sounded so sure he snapped his mouth shut, wondering if he'd just made things worse. She pressed against him, and he sighed, lost.

"Sorry." Sherlock mumbled, and decided to just hug her. He was getting good at hugging women as they cried on him. Maybe she just needed to cry. He hoped that would work.

* * *

><p>"Poor Molly." Violet said softly as John sat beside her on the leather couch in Molly's office. She didn't look up from her laptop, just listened to the faint sounds of tears coming through the door. "Poor Sherlock, too."<p>

"Yeah, it's a right mess. Don't know what he's going to do about it, either." John told her, dropping his head back on the cushions.

"Aren't you on your way to work here in a bit?" Violet asked, eyes following a stray line of code through a program she was trying to repair. She must have wrote this while high or something the first time. She hadn't partaken of anything in a few months, so she wasn't sure. John didn't reply, and she stopped, watching as he got slightly pink in the face. She'd never met a man who blushed as easily as John Watson. "What?"

"I called off the next two days." John muttered, eyes shut, head still back. That would mean he wasn't going to work for four more days, as that would bring them to the weekend. Vacation?

"Umm, why?" Violet asked, befuddled.

"Because someone tried to kill you last night." John said, exasperated.

Violet found herself getting all teary, and she bumped his shoulder with her own.

"You softie." She whispered, going back to her code, leaning on him until he roped her in, letting her snuggle all she wanted.

* * *

><p>The Lear jet soared across the still dark sky, stars burning brilliantly above as it headed eastward to the distant shores of England. It was so quiet in the cabin that he could hear his own heartbeat. Silence, exactly as he liked it. His men were in the rear, as far from their boss as they could get. He took that as a good sign; it meant his reputation in the field hadn't diminished at all in the years since he'd last run a mission.<p>

The mission he was on was sanctioned, in so far as any of them could ever be. Especially on the sovereign soil of an allied nation. He knew how to mind his manners, as long as he received the cooperation he need to complete his mission. He opened his laptop, and accessed the files of the formerly assumed dead intelligence officer known only as A.G.R.A. She had been labeled dead almost six years earlier. After dying in an explosion that also took out her assigned targets. Which he knew were really dead, as enough DNA evidence had been recovered for them to be identified afterwards. There had been none for her, which should have tipped off the cleaners after the explosion that something wasn't right.

He sighed in frustration, ruing the day he had accepted the promotion to director of special operations. Once he left the field, officers had started to get lazy. He had taught most of them better.

Most of the men he had with him now weren't his, many of them too young to have been trained by him while he taught at the Farm. But the stubborn and violent Golden Girl had been his trainee. She had flourished under his tutelage, becoming an unstoppable force of nature. He had enjoyed stripping from her any trace of the young woman she had been, reducing her to nothing but an efficient and obedient machine. She quickly outstripped her peers, graduating early, and within a year she was breaking records for her age group. Her mission success rate had been flawless. She had nearly four hundred confirmed kill actions to her credit. No one had even come close to breaking her record in the years since she 'died'.

Silas Williamson, Director of Special Operations for the CIA, aka 'The Vicar', was hunting his former protégé. She had been confirmed alive almost two months ago, living in London, under the name of Mary Morstan. And he would find her, without a doubt. She wasn't the only one with a flawless record.

* * *

><p>Greg groaned in frustration, glaring at the wheelchair the nurse was holding for him. He could walk, just very carefully, and as long as he didn't move his left arm any.<p>

"C'mon Boss, you know you need it." Sally needled him, and he rolled his eyes at his sergeant when she grinned. "Hurry up, I hate hospitals."

Sally ignored the glare from the nurse holding the chair, carrying the small duffel bag containing his few clothes and personal items.

Greg stopped hesitating, knowing the sooner he got in the damned chair, the sooner he'd be outside. Out of this room he'd been in for over a month. He levered himself slowly out away from the bed, and moved carefully to the chair. It was only a couple of feet, but it felt like a mile before he lowered himself into the seat. He refused to show how hard it had been, ignoring the sweat rolling down his temple at the effort. If they saw how hard it was, they may not let him leave.

He knew technically he was only being released from the hospital into private care. Mycroft had pulled off the impossible, arranging for private nurses and a special bed and equipment at his townhouse, all within a few hours. But to him, he felt like a kid escaping school for a summer holiday.

Greg endured the indignity of being wheeled out like an old man, Sally following behind. They exited at the front entrance of the hospital, and Sally went into berserker mode when she saw a couple of reporters waiting on him. He ignored them, letting Sally keep them at bay as the nurse wheeled him to Mycroft's black Jaguar. The great black car was purring in the melting snow of the street, and the valet opened the door for him. Sally hovered, but he waved off her help as he slowly gripped the door, stood with infinite care, and lowered himself into the very luxurious interior of the car. It was warm, and soft, and he hardly had the strength to move once he sat down.

Sally hopped in after him, slamming the door on the reporters taking pictures. He could care less. His entire torso was throbbing in time with his heart, and he was sweating. She didn't say a word, just kept him company as the car pulled out and away from St Bart's.

"Tell me what's going on at the Yard, please." He tried his best not to sound like he was begging. He needed a distraction from the pain.

"Got a double murder yesterday, Sherlock's on it." Sally told him, watching the streets blur as the car accelerated through downtown traffic.

"Oh, well, take the week off, he's got it sorted." Greg chuckled, gasping as he remembered he shouldn't laugh. "How's my office doing?"

"It's still your office, and I'm reminded of that every time I accidentally sit at my old desk." She grumbled, and he smiled at the discomfort in her voice. "I cannot wait for you to get better and take it back."

"Me neither! Not because you're doing a bad job, you aren't, really. I just hate being, well…. This." Greg waved a hand at his entire body, encompassing his aches and pains and damned frailty.

"I know." Sally smiled brightly, and he had to do a double take at the glitter of moisture in her eyes. "I need you back, Boss."

"Hey now, none of that. Don't know why you're crying, I was the poor bloke thinking his partner was dead for days on end." Greg said, and she sniffled.

"I am so sorry about that." Sally said again, for the millionth time. He waved at her, stilling her endless apologies. She hadn't stopped apologizing since the day he woke up to find out she lived.

"You didn't know what that bitch was doing. It's not your fault." Greg said, catching her hand, holding it tightly. He held her hand until the car pulled up in front of Mycroft's house, the grand white entrance daunting in the morning light.

"Wow, your boyfriend's got a nice house. Must be good money, running the country." Greg sputtered at her calling Mycroft his boyfriend. The word 'boyfriend' just didn't match up with his mental image of Mycroft Holmes. The word was too insignificant.

"We aren't, he hasn't…" Greg gave up, not knowing what they were.

"Of course he's your boyfriend, you just moved in with him." Sally said, exasperated.

"But we haven't even…" Greg shut up as the door was opened, and he dropped his head when he was greeted by another wheelchair.

Getting him into the house wasn't an issue, nor was getting settled in a large, spacious sitting room on the first floor of the house, near the rear garden, that was converted into a bedroom. The problem was he felt horribly awkward, and immediately lost. He'd spent a good week of his life here when they were dealing with Jaime Moriarty. But then he'd had purpose, a reason to be here, a focus outside himself. He'd spent two days wrapped up in Mycroft's arms, as they comforted each other as best they could when they thought Sally and Anthea were dead. But those two days felt like they hadn't happened, in so many ways. The day he remembered best was the morning after Moriarty stormed the townhouse, kidnapping John. That morning he'd done something he'd never thought possible, not for him. He'd kissed Mycroft Holmes, and the MI6 man had let him.

"I'm off, Boss. It is okay I come by to visit, right? This place looks like a museum." Sally was almost whispering, eyeing the very expensive furniture.

"Yeah, don't see why not. I'm not going anywhere." He smiled at her as she dropped his bag on the bed, waving as she walked out.

Greg relaxed as best he could on the very soft couch the now absent attendant had left him, and he realized he had nothing to do. He was bored, again. But he wouldn't complain, he was out of the damn hospital, and he was thankful.

Now all he needed was to know where his host was. Greg hadn't seen him yet, not once. He tried not to feel upset, considering that Mycroft Holmes literally ran the British Government. Man was probably busy.

He slowly lowered himself down on the couch, glad to be resting flat on something that wasn't a bloody hospital bed. He groaned, happy to be able to put his feet up, even if it was on the very expensive looking fabric of the armrest. It wasn't his armchair back at his flat, but it would do in a pinch.

He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew, he felt fingers running through the hair at his temple. He hovered in that peaceful place between waking and dreaming, happy and content. He lifted an arm, letting it fall back over his head, stretching out the tight, sore muscles of his side, and it fell across the muscular lap of the man sitting next to his head. He sighed, feeling warm and relaxed, and rubbed his head against the leg beside him.

Those warm, gentle fingers traced the edge of his ear, sending tiny shivers down his neck, across his skin, before drifting back through his hair. He had the fuzzy thought that he was really glad he hadn't cut it, that it was longer than usual. It felt so very good.

A hand found his, of the arm draped across the lap of the man showing him such wonderful attention. Fingers intertwined, and a thumb rubbed circles on his palm. He stirred, the tingles waking him further from that happy place of lazy warmth. He moved his head a little bit, and blinked up at the man sitting on the couch with him.

Mycroft gave him a tiny smile, not saying anything, fingers still playing in his hair. Their eyes met, and held, no tension between them, just relaxed and content. Greg smiled back, and let his eyes drift shut.

"Enjoying your stay, Gregory?" Mycroft asked him, voice low, caressing.

"Hmm." It was the only reply he had the strength for, so tired and content was he. Greg rubbed his head on Mycroft's leg, trying to get closer. Mycroft's hand tightened on his, the thumb rubbing his palm firmer, slower, a small heat building in him.

"So I see." Mycroft sounded happy, amused. It was so strange, hearing those emotions in Mycroft's voice. Greg couldn't really recall hearing Mycroft be happy more than once before; when Mycroft had called him back from that in-between place of nothingness. When he had tried to tell Mycroft that he would do anything for him, even come back from the dead.

"Feels good." Greg whispered, trying really hard to open his eyes, to see Mycroft. Greg managed it, and he knew that tiny flutter in his chest, that stirred his heart when he saw that face, was love. He loved this man, this man he barely knew, and his friend's brother, who ran the entire nation from a massive underground bunker beneath their feet. Greg loved him.

He was so happy, and tired, and caught up in the sweet and lazy warmth, that he just let the words out. He had no thought of repercussions or fear of rejection. Just love.

"Love you." He sighed. His eyes drifted shut, and he tried not to fall asleep, but he couldn't resist. He fell away, his thoughts loosening from his waking mind, and the last thing he heard helped the nascent sensations in his heart grow.

"I love you too, Gregory." Mycroft whispered to the sleeping man. He was overcome, glad no one could see him. He had never, in all his long empty years, said those words to another human being.

* * *

><p>Mycroft leaned back on the couch, his fingers still running through Gregory's silky fox grey hair. There was a darker stripe along the crown of his head, whiter down the sides and at his temples. He wasn't losing any hair, it had just gone this lovely blend of smoky grey and snow white. It was thick and full and Mycroft couldn't stop touching it. He smiled at himself, glad the door was shut, and that he was alone. He had just been planning to stop in briefly, say his hellos and go back to work. But Gregory had been sleeping, and he looked so much more relaxed and content on the couch than he had ever been at the hospital. He had looked so appealing that Mycroft had closed the door and snuck over to the couch.<p>

Mycroft was experiencing a sensation he thought he would never feel in his life. That such a thing was not meant for him, that he must spurn it, cast it aside if it ever grew in him. But now that he felt it, he wanted it so much. Greg loved him, his current state making it hard for him to lie, or to embellish the truth. Mycroft had been in enough interrogations to know when someone was telling the truth. Greg loved him, and Mycroft was beyond ecstatic. He didn't know how to show it, but every fiber of his body, heart, mind, and that indefinable quality he must label his soul loved Gregory Lestrade. So those simple and inadequate words would have to do, for now.

Mycroft tried to ignore the mobile in his pocket, as it vibrated incessantly at him for the millionth time in the last five minutes. He gave it two minutes before Anthea came for him herself. He understood her impatience, as he hated it when people ignored him too. But this time he couldn't care, not really. He had found a moment of pure, strings free happiness, and he wanted to hold onto it for as long as he could.

Considering who was flying into the country today, Mycroft Holmes knew that happiness would be in short supply, for himself, his brother, and John Watson.

The Vicar was coming for Mary Morstan, and Mycroft Holmes had been ordered to help him find her. The directive had come from one of the two people in the entire country capable of ordering him to do anything.

* * *

><p>Mary groaned in frustration, dropping the mobile to the settee. There was nothing left to read, watch, and listen to on the mobile. She felt like she'd scoured the entirety of the internet in the last month. She was trapped, and had nothing to do. She was going insane sitting in this fake house.<p>

She lashed out, slamming her fist into the wall, ignoring the intense flash of pain that radiated out from her knuckles, up her wrist. The skin tore on her knuckles, but she was past caring. Anything felt good right now.

_I can't fucking take it anymore. I'm losing it. I'm going insane._

Mary picked up her mobile, disregarding the blood dripping from her hand. She typed in a text, and hit Send. She didn't even care which Holmes she sent it to either.

**If I don't get some fresh air soon I'm turning myself in just so I'll have something to fucking do. I'll take killing guards over these concrete walls –MM**

Mary knew she was being childish, but she had no reserves left. Her hormones were starting to drive even herself crazy, and not being able to leave this building was actually producing a sick feeling in her stomach.

Mary flung herself down on the settee, and grabbed her pillow, hugging it. She clutched her mobile, and found herself wishing for company. Anyone's right now.

She found herself thinking about John. The way he smiled, walked, the scent of his cologne. The ugly jumpers he wore on his days off, and the black suede jacket he wore to work. The way he made his tea in the mornings, and how he'd always read the same section of newspaper first every day.

Mary flinched at the pain she felt at these memories, and sternly cast them aside. He was gone. She had nothing left of him but the life she carried.

She pressed her face in her pillow, and rested. Stress wasn't good for the baby. She'd force herself to cope somehow.

Mary relaxed, and found her thoughts drifting further. Anything to get John out of her head, she thought of Jaime.

A woman born with exceptional gifts, abilities to rival even a veteran assassin with a decade more experience. She had been brilliant, tactical, brutally efficient, and mercurial. She had done the impossible, which no matter how much training a person may get, could never really do: She had exorcised all fear. Jaime Moriarty had been the definition of fearless. And she was thoroughly, utterly insane. Jaime Moriarty had been broken as a child, she and her big brother Jim. Both broken, and abandoned by the world. And to protect themselves, they became monsters, conquering the threats against them, and wielding evil as both shield and weapon.

She had also, in some strange and wonderful way, become Mary's friend. A partner. Once Jaime had extended the chance to avenge their mutually broken hearts, and Mary accepted, Jaime had treated Mary as an equal. Full access to weapons, plans, decisions. And while Mary had been focused on avenging her scorned affections, Jaime Moriarty had given her heart to Mary. She didn't know how, or why, but Jaime had loved her in the end. Loved the assassin who had been born Amelia. There had been no one left in all the world who knew her birth name, but Jaime had.

And Jaime died in a cage in a hellstorm of fire. Mary shuddered at the possibility that Jaime may not have found the knife she'd accidentally left in her jacket when she covered the unconscious woman with it in the cage. And the chance that she had. That the last remaining scion of the Moriarty clan was alive. Mary's thoughts were chaotic, caught up in the nightmare of possibilities.

Jaime had been a dreadful, horrific reminder of the frailty of life and the human heart. That anyone could become evil. Mary had been so close to becoming her, six years ago. If she hadn't decided to retire and fake her death, she would most likely be worse than Jaime Moriarty had ever been. If her own agency hadn't decided to retire her first. With a bullet.

Mary sat up, and threw the pillow away. Thinking about the young woman who had found the remnants of Mary's broken heart was merely adding to her misery. Mary decided then and there that she wanted to get out of these concrete walls if it was the last thing she did. And she wished with all her heart that she would see the beautiful and mad face of Jaime Moriarty when she stepped out the doors of Leinster Gardens.

* * *

><p>Sherlock rested his chin on Molly's head, the shorter woman crying on his chest. Her tears were easing, and she had relaxed her grip on his neck. He hadn't said anything after she shot down his suggestion that he leave her, leave her life. Her refusal to even hear it made Sherlock feel weird, happy and sad all at once. These emotions were confusing, and he had trouble prioritizing them.<p>

"Sherlock?" That wasn't Molly, but Violet. He looked up, to see Violet in the doorway of the small lab office, John at her shoulder.

He didn't say anything, just lifted an eyebrow in query. She stepped out, her bag over her shoulder, coat on. She was leaving, and John was going with her, if his doctor's expression said anything about it.

"Going to go see a mutual friend, cabin fever and all." She told him. "John's coming with me."

Sherlock sighed, not wanting his doctor or niece out of his sight, but realizing that he hadn't much choice right now. He nodded, and locked eyes with John. His doctor gave him that small, intense, sweet smile he never showed anyone else, before his eyes dropped to the woman crying on Sherlock. John shrugged, his eyes communicating an emotion Sherlock couldn't quite figure out. Regret? What could John be regretting?

John waved his mobile at him before following Violet out the door. John would text him, of course.

Molly lifted her head as she heard the doors swing shut, wiping at her cheeks. He lifted his hands, wondering what to do. She was usually so easy to be around, but he was lost in this instance. Had he hugged her too long? Not long enough?

She wiped away the tears still on her face, and did her best to smile at him.

"Better now?" He dared to ask, thinking in his deepest of hearts that things would never be better. He couldn't be what she wanted.

Molly didn't answer, a hand coming to rest on his chest. She seemed to be thinking hard, her face hiding her thoughts from him. Sherlock waited, wondering what she was thinking. Molly let her eyes flow over his face, as if seeing him for the first time, or the last. As if she wanted to remember every line, every smooth plane. He was so distracted by the fact he couldn't read her that he didn't see what she intended before it was too late.

Molly kissed him. She kissed him deep, and fully, hands holding his face, body pressed to his, warm and soft and curvy in new places. Her lips were soft, and sweet, and tasted of tears. Sherlock gasped, frozen, and she took her chance, kissing him deeper. Her tiny tongue touched his before darting away, to briefly explore his mouth as her lips moved over his. She gave him a kiss full of passion and love and desire, achingly sweet and pure.

Kissing her so was so different from kissing John that Sherlock nearly shut down, utterly befuddled. He would realize in hindsight that perhaps he should have disentangled himself immediately, but he hoped he could be forgiven, never having kissed a woman like this before. A cheek kiss for his mother or Mrs. Hudson sure, but never had he ever kissed a woman like this. Jaime Moriarty had kissed him while he was in the hospital, but not even remotely like this. Molly's kiss literally had no comparison in his experience. Her fingers wove through his hair, and she held her whole body to him. He just sat there on his stool, and let her kiss him. And kiss him she did.

Molly pulled away, having thoroughly and rather expertly kissed him as wonderfully as any woman could have wished. Sherlock blinked at her, confused, and feeling slightly guilty that it hadn't been unpleasant. So very different from what he was used to that he catalogued the experience, filing it away automatically, and wondering why he was staring at her like she had told him she'd met someone smarter than him.

"I won't say I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm not." She whispered, stepping back from him. She looked down at her hands, fingers twirling her ring. "I need to go talk to Tom. He can be jealous about something tangible now, I guess. I'll understand if you're not here when I get back. And you tell John I did that, too. Or I can, if you prefer. I just had to do that at least once in my lifetime before I die."

Molly's fingers brushed his curls from his eyes, as he tried to learn how to think past his confusion. She pulled off her lab coat, and picked up her things, pausing briefly at the lab door before walking out. He would remember the look on her face for the rest of his life.

The doors swung shut behind her as she left, leaving him alone in the pathology lab. Sherlock stared at the doors, wondering what had just happened, and why he felt so very sad about it all.


	40. In The Shadows

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**WARNING: SEX. Have fun.**

**Enjoy! Review!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Forty<strong>

"_**In the Shadows"**_

"I'm up for committing a felony, John." Violet told the doctor walking at her side. It was bright and sunny and every surface was soaking wet, the snow melting fast.

"Haven't you been doing that all day?" John quipped, and she smirked. She certainly had been.

"Ssshhhhh! That's a secret!" Violet called for a cab with her mobile cab app, and they waited out in front of St Bart's. "I should have told you I was a barista or something bland, now you can't get enough of my sexy-hacker-awesomeness."

"Is that even a word?" John asked, his eyes checking the corners of the square, the street to either side of them. He was paying attention to her, but also looking for bad guys. What a man. Sherlock was one lucky guy.

"Nope, just made it up, all me." Violet sighed in relief as she saw the cab approaching. "Or if it is, I'm still calling dibs on it."

She loved her app, all the major metropolitan city cab services around the world were picking it up. Every time one did, and people used the app, she got a tiny itty-bitty percentage of the fare as a service fee. And not to mention the money she made when people purchased the app. She was making a killing every day just by thinking up lines of code. And it wasn't her only app, just the most successful legal one. Violet restrained her glee at remembering John's face when she gave him that brown paper sack of money last month. His face had been priceless. She wasn't the wealthiest person in the world, but she never had to work another day in her life if she so choose.

"So where, too?" Asked the cabbie as they hopped in the back.

"Winchester Luxury Car Sales, please." Violet told him, not responding to John's quiet groan of disbelief. She tossed him a smile, and said nothing more as the cab pulled out from Bart's.

Violet pulled out her mobile, and started to check the dealer's website for the car she wanted. It was there, and she hid her mobile so John wouldn't see. She was going to have some serious fun. Usually she'd just have the cabbies drop her off a couple of blocks from the rear storage lot of the luxury retailers, disable security, and take a car out for the day without any one being the wiser. Depending on her mood and what she was doing, she'd either return the car, or dump it. But seeing as how they were on their way to save the sanity of one very cabin-fever stricken assassin who was carrying John's baby, she thought it best not to risk getting caught. But that didn't mean she had to tell John what she was doing. And having him show up in a really good mood might be better than the usually tense and disillusioned attitude he had on these visits.

The cab dropped them off in front of Winchester Luxury, a grand building with a glass and steel three story lobby filled with cars usually only seen in spy movies and high speed action flicks. She pulled out her mobile as John was sweet enough to pay the cabbie, and accessed her accounts, and the dealer's website. She had her transaction complete before John walked to her side, staring up at the daunting building full of dream cars.

"So, John, what's your dream car?" Violet asked, roping her arm through his, walking to the doors. She already knew the answer. He had a magazine that he kept next to his armchair, the page with the car so well worn it was almost falling out.

"Um, wow. Easy, that one over there." John pointed to the sexy black Audi R8 V10 that just screamed horsepower where it crouched in the center of the lobby. He held the door for her, and she let him go, heading unerringly for the car, leaving her behind. She didn't mind, letting him look his fill.

Violet caught the eye of a smartly dressed salesman, pulling him over with a flirty smile. He came over so fast he must have smelled the money in her accounts from across the room.

"Hello, miss, how may I help you today?" The salesman asked, his smile oozing charm, attitude all about thinking she was a mark. Too bad for him. She'd run circles around him all day.

"I'm here to pick up the Audi. It's my uncle's birthday. He's the doctor salivating all over the car there across the room." Violet murmured, grabbing the salesman's arm, and navigating him to the offices in the back. John didn't even notice, so engrossed was he in the car. "My name is Violet Hunter, I ordered the car just a few minutes ago."

She pulled out her ID, and a cotton and linen blend business card that had her account information embossed on the surface.

"The Audi, miss? The R8?" The disbelief in his voice clear despite his attempt to hide it. He looked down at her cards, then back up to her face.

"Yes, that one. I believe you have an invoice waiting in your Inbox, do be a dear and get me the keys." Violet smiled, and winked at him. "And the faster we move this along, the bigger commission you make."

Violet gently nudged the salesman towards the offices, waving her fingers at him to get moving. He gave her a look that was part disbelief and surprise, and epic amounts of curiosity. He went, calling for someone she assumed was a secretary, heading to the back rooms.

Violet meandered over to John, smiling at the fanboy awe on his face. He was already in love. He was so cute, hands held behind his back, like a kid told not to touch anything in an antique shop. He was oohing and aahing as he walked slowly around it. He went to touch the hood of the car, before snapping his fingers back. Violet laughed, and came up next to him, bumping his shoulder with her own.

"John, you're adorable. And you're my uncle, okay? I didn't feel like explaining that you're my uncle's lover to Mr. Salesman." Violet told him, watching the back offices, wondering how long it would take the salesman to verify her accounts, her ID and the fully purchased she already bought-it-while-she-was walking-in-the-front-door luxury car. "If I hadn't, you'd be getting winks and high fives for dating me."

"What? Okay, but why would you tell him…. What did you do?" John snapped up, getting a nervous look on his face, eyes dancing between her face and the car he was clearly in love with.

"Just play along." Violet roped her arm through his again, snuggled in when she saw the salesman come back out, a huge, cloying, sickly sweet smile on his face, followed by a secretary and what must be his manager. All of them smiles and she grinned herself when she saw the shiny keys held in the boss man's hands, the stacks of paperwork in the secretary's.

"Miss Hunter, I presume? And this must be your uncle! Happy birthday sir, you have a lovely niece for her to buy you such a gift." The manager shook their hands, Violet not paying attention at all to his name, and she let John be distracted by the fact he now had the car keys in his hand.

She signed all the paperwork, collected her ID, and very discretely handed over a few tightly stacked clips of money to her new best buddy at the dealership. Best not to let John know she walked around with so much money, he'd probably never let her out of the flat. She stuffed her copies in her bag, reminding herself to pay off all the taxes on it for the next few years, get the title sorted out. It was already in his name, he just needed to sign it.

John just stood there in shock as some attendants opened the lobby up, using the cleverly hidden doors to the outside that let the cars be displayed in the large room.

Violet managed to offer up her thanks without letting slip her impatience, and waved off the sales crew. John was standing next to the driver's side door, staring at the keys in his hand.

"John!" Violet nearly had to shout to get him to look up.

"What….. Christ, Violet! Did you just steal a car?" John whispered to her loudly over the roof of the car. She grinned at him, and opened the passenger side door.

"Nope, I bought it. Straight up. Happy birthday, John Watson." Violet slid in the car, and reached across the seats, opening the door for him, as he was very much in shock. She bumped the door on his hip, waking him from his daze. He got in, pulling the door shut carefully.

"Okay, seat belts." Violet instructed the poor man she'd shocked into a walking coma. She put her belt on, watching him. She was hoping he would be able to drive, she figured he might want to be the first one to drive his present.

He put his seatbelt on, and stared at her. "Okay, put key in the ignition, turn it on."

John did so, super slow, as if he might break something. The engine roared to life, the vibrations subtle and strong all at once, pure power shivering their bones. John put his hands on the wheel, and looked at her as if he needed to be told what to do next.

"John, I should have asked, you can drive stick, right?" Violet needled his male ego just a bit, trying to wake him up. It worked, and John Watson snapped from his daze. He gave her a grin that looked like it belonged on a teenager, full of mischief and pure excitement.

She slammed back against the seat as John put the car in gear, roaring out of the dealership, onto the streets of London. He handled it like he was born driving the car, one smooth machine action all the way through downtown. She laughed, enjoying the speed, glad she could do something for John. He had welcomed her into his life and home, and treated her like she was family.

Sherlock and John were her family. What else was she going to spend her money on? Shoes? Never mind John's birthday wasn't for another month. Sherlock was on notice, now. He better sweep John off his feet.

She figured they'd tool around for a bit, then go see about saving Mary from her doldrums. Violet pulled out her laptop, and began playing merry hob with the CCTV cameras around Leinster Gardens.

* * *

><p>Mary knew she was being foolish, but she had to get out. She threw on the long black coat that was reminiscent of Sherlock's, but hers had a hood. She pulled her dark red scarf up over her chin, the hood up over her hair, and buttoned up the coat. She had her nine mil under her shirt, tucked into her waistband, and the slit she'd cut in the coat pocket would let her draw easily and quickly.<p>

She palmed the keys, and stepped out of 23-24 Leinster Gardens for the first time in weeks. She squinted against the sunlight, the weak winter sun bright on her eyes. She breathed in deep, the cold air searing and invigorating. Mary pulled the door shut, and walked. She picked a random direction, and went. No thought of where to go, what to do, she just needed to move. It felt weird, walking farther than a few feet, not needing to stop and turn. Being able to see in the distance, see more than bare concrete walls and iron pipes, hear something other than the rumble of the Underground.

She wanted to run, she was so happy to be free. There was a park nearby if memory served, and she headed in that direction. There was no one around, it being the middle of the workday, kids in school. The trees were barren and covered with tiny patches of snow, the grass was a dull wet brown, but she didn't mind. Mary skipped to a bench on one of the paths, overlooking a fountain that had been turned off for the season. She sat, and stretched out her booted feet, leaning back on the bench.

The fountain was a cute one, concrete children playing in the empty basin, toys and a stone puppy in the mix as well. Mary smiled at the statues, and she imagined this place as it would be in the spring. How it would be in mid-summer. She was due in the summer, late July sometime, she wasn't entirely sure.

Mary saw a flash, a dream. She was pulled away from the dead park, to a place full of warm sun and sweet breezes. The park was alive and green, flowers and trees in full summer colors. She heard the sound of laughter, children giggling. There was a young child, a tiny toddler, walking with her little hand securely grasped in her parent's. She had blonde curls so light her hair was nearly white, bouncy and adorned with a red ribbon. Pale cheeks, rosy red lips, and her eyes were a deep, wise blue. Like her father's. She took her first steps under the kind and proud eyes of her father, who was holding her hand as she walked down the path to the fountain.

Her dream child giggled as she walked to the tall dark haired man beckoning to her from where he crouched on his knees, holding out a soft toy as incentive. She made it, and giggled, grabbing the toy. Her daddy picked her up, giving her kisses on her plump little cheek, and she reached out for the man she had walked to, who swooped her above their heads, making her giggle some more.

Mary watched, broken hearted and in love with a dream, as her yet to be born child was hugged by John and Sherlock, loved beyond all measure of words. They walked off together, laughing, happy. A family. Safe and alive, fully realized.

Mary battled her subconscious, but she saw the truth in this daydream. The truth that no matter how much she may already love the life growing in her, she would not be around to see it flourish. She would survive to bear this little miracle, but then she must go. She was dangerous. She killed with ease, hated fiercely, acted quickly from a place of anger and pain. Too many people wanted her dead, or behind bars.

Mary made herself a promise, sitting on the bench in the winter stricken park. That no matter what happened, she would make it, live long enough to have this baby. And she would give her child to John. She knew full well that regardless of how he felt about his child's mother, he would love the baby they had made. John would cherish and adore, nurture and protect his son or daughter. She would leave, to keep them all safe. From herself, and the people who would never stop hunting her.

Mary wrapped her arms over her stomach, hugging herself. She shut her eyes tight, and dropped her face deeper into her scarf, letting the fabric absorb her tears. She let the dream go, returning to the barren reality of her prison. Mary cried, saying goodbye in her heart to this child she had yet to meet, but whom she already loved so very much.

She sat there for nearly an hour, before getting up, and walking back to Leinster Gardens, head down, hands in her pockets, untroubled by the cold winter winds. She would endure her prison willingly now, for seven more months if she must.

* * *

><p>The afternoon light was grey and dreadful, invoking a depressive atmosphere across the city.<p>

Sherlock strode out of the front door of Bart's, eschewing a cab in favor of walking. Baker Street wasn't far by cab, but he wanted the walk to help with thinking. He had the evidence in his pockets, and he would finish his analysis at home.

Molly hadn't returned to Bart's, presumably still dealing with her fiancé, whatever his name was. Sherlock had doubted she would return at all that day, so he had done what work he could, before leaving. John had sent him a text not long ago, something about wanting to go driving without Violet and Mary, but not elaborating. The text had made no sense whatsoever. John hadn't been in trouble, so Sherlock decided to just go home.

He flipped up his collar against the wind, the day getting colder from the cheery dawn they'd had that morning. Rain looked to be on its way, but he might have the time to get home before it started. He hunkered down in his coat, eyes sweeping the street in front of him, watching and evaluating the people he passed on the streets.

Sherlock saw them all. The widower stealing his children's inheritance, the banker in love with his married partner, the old lady with too many cats. Everyone he saw was nothing but a long list of deductions, some of them so smothered by them he had to look away. For all of his waking memory, Sherlock knew more than he ever wanted to, more than the average person could handle knowing. He saw the truths carefully hidden in the lies, the lies buried under the truth. He saw everything.

Sherlock ignored the droplets falling, eyes on the street in front of him. A chill wind was blowing, driving the fresh rain down the nape of his neck, under his collar. He felt the cold, and dismissed it, unbothered by it. It was just water and cold air, precipitation and weather. Nothing he could change, nor should he if he could.

He had gotten a lesson in what he could and could not change earlier, when Molly found her courage, and kissed him in the lab. Her kiss had been a new, foreign experience, one he had never sought before. Molly loved him, she was_ in love with him._ And so she kissed him because she wanted the experience, a memory to have. And to his shock, he hadn't found it distasteful, or unpleasant. Once he had gotten past his confusion, Sherlock had sat on the stool for quite a while, staring at the doors, thinking. Why did he not dislike the kiss? He had no answer for that. None at all.

He knew he loved John, loved John to the exclusion of all others. But he also knew that he cared for Molly, more than he cared for anyone else who wasn't John, Mrs. Hudson or family. He had called what he felt for her love before, and he knew of no other word to name the emotion she generated in him. Sherlock was at a loss, pure and simple, and had no idea what to do about it. He didn't know what to do with what he was feeling, and the walking wasn't helping. He would usually talk out his problems with John, and have the solution come to him with its usual invigorating epiphany of brilliance.

Sherlock felt a warm rush of excitement creep out from his bones at the thought of John, his doctor's strong arms holding him tightly, firm lips kissing his, nibbling on his neck. And just as quickly, Sherlock stopped walking, so abruptly he almost tripped himself. How could he talk this out with John, when the topic was kissing Molly and how it made him feel? Sherlock didn't know much about relationships, but he figured kissing someone you weren't involved with was one of those bad things that made people fight. Would John be mad at him, what would he do? Was he supposed to tell John about the kiss? Molly had told him to, but Sherlock felt a nagging sense of fear that John would leave him if he did, abandon him in disappointment and hurt.

Sherlock stood in the falling rain, cold to the bone, oblivious to the rain falling from his curls, in his eyes.

_Oh John, what did I do?_

The sky darkened above him, unseen. The winds howled through the streets of London, driving the rain before it, stinging and frigid as it pummeled the detective. Sherlock bore up under the elements, eventually continuing on his way home.

* * *

><p>John parked the R8 in the alley behind 221B Baker Street, turning off the intoxicating car Violet had given him. He didn't know what had possessed her to buy it for him. She said it was a birthday present, and it was one hell of a present. He was well aware of how much this car cost, and a very big part of him was telling him to take it back. That no matter how much money she had, her spending that much on him was too much. He had said as much to her after they left Mary at Leinster Gardens, but she had shot it down with a look that reminded him very strongly of Sherlock at his worst. So he would graciously accept it until he could get away with either keeping it guilt free, or he'd donate it or something.<p>

Violet hopped out the car, running for Mrs. Hudson's kitchen door, wiping her feet before running inside. She was going to pack an overnight bag, something about Anthea inviting her over for dinner at Mycroft's. John had a feeling that it was a private dinner, and not with Mycroft. Anthea was sending a car with an armed guard, so John was okay with Violet leaving without him.

Their visit to Mary earlier had been different. She had welcomed them in, apologizing for her text to Violet that had prompted their arrival. Via a dealership, but still. She had eaten the takeaway Violet and he had stopped for, talking to them without a hint of bitterness or anger he had gotten so used to in the last few weeks. Mary had been acting like she used to be, before Sherlock's Return. When she had been nothing but a good woman, one he loved and liked. He hadn't known how to act at first, afraid he was seeing things. But she had seemed different.

John felt bad for her forced solitary confinement, he really did. But every time he thought about finding her a different place to hide, he was crippled by fear that it wouldn't be as secure as the place she was now, that she would be found. Found, hurt, captured, or killed.

John had a feeling that Mary was trying to come to terms with who she really was, with her options of a future. John was trying to reconcile the same thing, really. How was Mary going to raise a baby fighting off shady government agencies? How could she kept herself and a baby safe? And where would she raise a baby? John refused to let his child be raised in a place like Leinster Gardens, a concrete hole in the wall. Refused to let his child's mother be condemned to a life in the shadows.

John refused to entertain the thought of separating mother and child. To him, that was close to sacrilege. He had no delusions about modern society, and he believed that a man could raise a baby just as well as woman. But Mary was a powerful, vibrant, intelligent woman, and aside from the whole assassin thing, he would want a child of his to be like her. She would be a good mother, fierce and deadly as a momma bear, as caring as any doting Madonna archetype.

John sighed loudly, watching the rain pour down hard over the windshield. He opened the door and got out, locking the car behind him as he ran for the door, rain running over him. He just wanted to get inside, hug his detective, and sit in front of the fire.

John got in, feeling bad about the water he was dropping over Mrs. Hudson's clean floor, running through her flat to the stairs. He took them two at a time, noting they were exceptionally wet. Someone soaking wet must have taken the stairs. He walked in the flat, and stopped next to a very still Violet.

Violet and John stared at Sherlock, who was standing next to his chair, dripping wet and paler than he usually was. He was still in his coat, scarf soaked and drooping. He wasn't really 'there', having that aura about him he would get when deep in his mind palace. He was absent, unblinking, eyes fixed and blind. John shivered, a chill coming from his heart, and not his clothing.

"Hey, I'll take care of Sherlock, go get ready for your sleepover." John gently touched Violet's shoulder, snapping her out of her surprise at seeing Sherlock like that. "Anthea's car will be here soon."

"Are you sure?" Violet whispered, a worried expression on her pretty Holmes' features.

"Yeah, I've seen worse. He'll be fine." John shooed her upstairs, and she went, looking over her shoulder as she took the stairs to her room.

John waited on Violet to pack, grabbing her toiletries from the bathroom, and kissing him on the cheek when her mobile vibrated. Anthea's car was here, and Violet left, torn between wanting to stay with her uncle, and going to see her girl. He shut and locked the flat doors, so that no one could just wander in while Sherlock was like this.

John was alone at last with Sherlock, the building quiet and still. John shrugged out of his coat and winter gear, and carefully approached Sherlock. His detective would sometimes get caught up in his mind palace, so deep that he would forget the passage of time, and stay far longer than he should. John had a feeling that something had prompted Sherlock to overstay in his palace, and had lost his way back.

John very gently tugged the coat off of Sherlock, hanging it over the hook on the door. The scarf and gloves came next, John putting them away before returning to Sherlock. John undid the suit jacket and cuff links, pulling off Sherlock's damp jacket, tossing it on the desk. Sherlock had yet to react, and John was getting worried. Whatever it was that did this to Sherlock must have been serious. John had no worries that Sherlock would react badly to his ministrations. Now, if someone else were to try this, they would get a very nasty and brutal surprise. John had seen Sherlock react violently at being awoken from his palace.

A murder suspect just the week before had poked Sherlock while he was in his palace, calling up information on the velocity of certain caliber bullets in relation to objects they were passing through, all in connection to proving whether or not the suspect had killed his wife. He had, and he had also gotten a bloody nose for touching Sherlock. Everyone learned on real quick not to touch Sherlock Holmes unless you were John Watson.

John bent down, and started a fire in the hearth. Sherlock was cold, and his hair was damp. He fed the fire, and got up to get a towel from the bathroom. Sherlock was as he left him once he got back, and John gently took him by his shoulders, and maneuvered him to sit in his leather armchair. Sherlock went easily, cooperating with John. The doctor took this as a good sign, that Sherlock wasn't too deep.

John moved behind him, and started drying his love's wet hair. He figured talking would do the trick, tempt him to come back on his own.

"So, I had an interesting day. We went to see Mary, who was actually in a good mood, of sorts. She seemed sad, but happy. Weird, right? Usually we haven't a thing to say to each other, but we actually talked. Not about much, but it got me thinking. I'm going to be a father. Me. A dad. Do you know I never dared to hope for such a thing?"

"I never thought I'd find myself having a family, at all. I always thought of family as something someone else did, not me. When you were….gone…. I tried to be happy with Mary, and the idea of settling down. Considering how old I am, I never thought that hard about kids. Guess I should have, seeing as how the whole baby thing wasn't planned. But I can't be unhappy with the way things have worked out. You came back to life, brought me back with you, and I have you in my heart, my home, my bed. I have you, I'm going to be a dad, and no matter how crazy this life may be, I've never been happier."

Sherlock's shoulders relaxed, and he leaned back slightly. John smiled, and kept it up, and figured he might as well take advantage of Sherlock listening.

"Well, before we went to see Mary, your darling niece got me a birthday present. I was properly shocked when she bought me a car, an Audi R8 V10. You have any idea how much those things retail for? It's parked out in the back alley. I'm still in shock. Feel like I'm going to wake up, and it was some cosmic joke. I don't think I'll keep it, feel bad about her spending that kind of money. But damn, is it hotter than hell to drive."

Sherlock tipped his head back, and John took away the towel. He smiled down at Sherlock, his soft black curls dry and springy. John leaned down, and lightly kissed his love on his upside down lips. He stood up quickly though, as Sherlock flinched.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?" He asked, coming around to the front of Sherlock's chair.

Sherlock met his eyes, and John was floored by the look on his detective's face. John had no other word for it but afraid.

"Love? What's wrong?" John reached out a hand, and cupped Sherlock's face. "Did you learn something about the case?"

Sherlock shook his head, a tiny movement. John stroked his fine marble cheek with his thumb, and moved closer. He was standing between Sherlock's knees, against the chair.

"Tell me, please." John asked his love, worried. Sherlock never hesitated to tell him anything, unless he was worried about how John would take it. But then he usually went glacial, and blunt. This Sherlock was timid, fearful.

"Molly kissed me." Sherlock blurted out, and he pressed his lips together, as if he couldn't believe he said those words. "And I didn't not like it."

John stopped thinking. He breathed and felt, but he, John, stopped. Molly kissed Sherlock, and he didn't not like it? Did that mean he liked it? Did Sherlock kiss her back?

John didn't realize he'd asked that last question out loud until he saw Sherlock shaking his head vehemently.

"No, I didn't. She kissed me, and I didn't stop her. I'm sorry." Sherlock whispered, and he looked like a child stripped of privileges and sent to bed for not being loveable enough.

John exhaled the breath he didn't know he was holding, and grabbed his armchair, dragging it closer to Sherlock. John sat down, knees to Sherlock's, and tugged his detective's hand into his.

"Okay, tell me." John ordered, not unkindly.

"I really don't understand anything, John." Sherlock said, half plea, half whine, all misery.

"Just tell me what happened."

"I….. Offered to leave. To leave her alone." Sherlock said, his diamond eyes clinging to John's, unblinking. The fire was casting half his face in shadow, but John could see his luminous eyes clearly enough. "Since she couldn't stop loving me."

"Okay." John was surprised by that, Sherlock knowing enough, caring enough, to make that offer. A very mature, and eventually kind thing to do.

"She said no. Very firmly." Sherlock sucked in a deep breath. "She cried for a bit more, after you two left the lab. Then she kissed me."

"Okay. I'm not surprised, really. I know she's loved you for years." John told Sherlock, no anger or judgment in his voice. Poor Sherlock, he was so lost. He wasn't mad at Sherlock. He didn't know how he felt about Molly.

"She said that she wanted to do that once before she died." Sherlock gasped out, his voice making it clear he was conflicted. He paused, and seemed even more nervous now.

"I think I liked it." Sherlock was horrified, and he ducked his head, looking at their joined hands.

"Oh." John breathed, and he felt a little off balance. "She's very pretty, and you care about her. I'm not shocked that it would be a nice kiss."

"But I love you!" Sherlock said, the force of his words making John jump, before he forced himself to relax.

"I know you do. Tell me what's got you so bothered, love. Please." John begged Sherlock, gripping his hands tight. A kiss was close to breaking down Sherlock, and John was beyond worried now.

"How can I love you, and kiss you, and like her kiss, do I love her too?" Sherlock was babbling, and John took a minute to unravel the confused question. Sherlock was a tumbled mess of utter confusion, fear, and nerves. John hadn't seen him this off kilter since Baskerville. He wasn't as terrified, and he wasn't angry, but he was thoroughly messed up.

John sat and thought. He knew without any hesitation in his heart and soul that Sherlock loved him. That he need never fear that Sherlock would go astray, cheat on him, break his heart with another man or woman. That he had the most intensely human man for a lover and friend, who carried so many imperfections and skewed realizations along with him. He had so much knowledge and skill, yet he had sacrificed the larger realities of human interactions, the subtlety of the unspoken communications and implied meanings to be what he was. There was so much that Sherlock saw, but a good chunk of it was beyond his experience.

"You love me, and you kiss me." John said, holding Sherlock's eyes, not letting his love look away. "But she kissed you, and you liked it, and you're worried you're in love with her too?"

"I…. Yes." Sherlock sighed deeply, and finally relaxed all the way, slouching in his chair. John gave him a tiny smile, did his best to help Sherlock through this tricky maze. He was no expert by any means, so it was almost a case of the blind leading the blind.

"Are you in love with me, Sherlock?" John asked, keeping it simple.

"Yes, don't be silly." Sherlock said, and John grinned at that snip, glad Sherlock was coming back from the ledge.

"Okay, do this for me. Close your eyes." John ordered his detective. Sherlock gave him a funny look, but did it.

"Now I want you, Sherlock Holmes, the most analytical human in the world, to go over every single thing you know and feel about me in your head. Go through every instant of our lives together, and remember. Think about how it all makes you feel, why it makes you feel that way, what those feelings do to you. Take your time, and be thorough."

John waited, and watched. He could tell when Sherlock stopped humoring him, and actually did what he asked. His face, while usually so hard to read, was as clear and decipherable as a book open in front of him. John could almost recognize the memories, the moments in time that Sherlock recalled, just by the emotions that raced across his face.

John saw in Sherlock the first day they met, when Sherlock both awed and annoyed him. A night of racing through London's streets, and Sherlock showing John the strength of the human mind, helping him to conquer his body and that damnable limp. The shot that sealed their friendship, and the laughter that followed.

John could see when Sherlock got to the night he was kidnapped by the Tong, and nearly killed. He saw the bombings, the strain of having cases thrown at him on a timer, and the steadfast faith and support John gave him throughout those couple of days.

John was with him when he got to the night at the pool, the night that John saw that Sherlock did indeed have a heart, and that he had a claim on it. John found himself reliving that night with Sherlock, the scorching scent of the chlorine, the damp air, and Moriarty threatening to end them all. The hurt and fear, the momentary flash of doubt in Sherlock's eyes when Moriarty made John repeat after him. The joy and enormous relief when Moriarty let them go, and Sherlock tore off the vest.

John was with Sherlock when his love met The Woman. John saw the obsession, the attraction, and a small part of him had to recognize that Sherlock may have indeed loved Irene Alder, after a fashion. He felt that like a sharp jab to his heart, but it faded away, as Sherlock moved on.

John watched as Sherlock relived Baskerville, and his first confrontation with real terror. He gripped Sherlock's hands tightly, feeling that fear with him. And the first time that Sherlock admitted how he felt about John. That he didn't have friends. He had only the one, and it was John. Only John.

John wanted to weep at the frustration, the grief, and fear on Sherlock's face as his love recalled the events prior to his Fall. John saw to his determination to protect his friends, the people in his life he cared about. His determination to protect John.

John felt his own love rise up in him in response to the love and awe on Sherlock's face, as his detective confronted and embraced the sacrifice he had to make to save John. And John knew without any doubt in his heart and soul that his love really was a hero, and the truest kind, the kind that shrugged off the title, and kept going on no matter what.

He waited, and he was so very thankful and overjoyed when Sherlock got to his return. He had to forgive himself for slugging Sherlock so hard when his detective came back, but the first few days together afterwards were indelibly imprinted in John's mind, heart and body. He relived telling Sherlock he loved him for the first time all over again, and had to bite his tongue to keep from saying it now, and distracting Sherlock.

John felt the fear and frustration of dealing with Jamie Moriarty. The endless days of tears and hollow hearts, grief swallowing them whole. The pain of separation, fear that they would die. And the love and overwhelming joy of reunion.

John was helpless to his own heart. He gave in to it, and let the love and joy sweep out from every corner of his being. Sherlock. His Sherlock. Here, home, his. John waited quietly, knowing Sherlock couldn't do anything less than perfection in any task placed before him. So it was with infinite patience that John waited for Sherlock to open his eyes.

John met the heavenly eyes of his true love, and smiled at him.

"No talking. Just listen. I want you to hold onto the feeling you have right now, the one for me, and compare it, in depth, to what you feel for Molly." John told him, fearlessly. He knew without any doubt what the result would be. "Close your eyes, and tell me when you're done. Take your time."

The time Sherlock was away was shorter, the emotions not as intense. He got a tiny scowl on his face, and he sighed. He was thinking hard, and John stifled a gentle laugh at how endearingly wonderful his man was. It was a mere heartbeat of time that he was away. Sherlock opened his eyes, and looked at John.

"I'm done." Sherlock said, willing to keep following directions. John gave him that smile he never gave another living soul, and tugged Sherlock forward. Their faces were inches apart.

"Now tell me what you've just learned." John whispered. He wanted nothing more than to kiss Sherlock right now. He knew exactly what Sherlock was going to say, and he was rewarded well for his faith.

"I love Molly, but not like I love you. She's a friend, nothing more. Her kiss was nice, but only because I do care about her. I wouldn't have felt anything if she had been a complete stranger, or someone I had an aversion to." Sherlock stated, confident in his reasoning. John nodded, encouraging him to keep going. "I don't want her. I want you. I need you."

"I love you, John Watson. _I am in love with you._ Deeply, irreversibly, forever engraved across my psyche in love with you. John- you make me, complete me, tear me down and rebuild me. I am not Sherlock Holmes without John Watson." Sherlock was so close to him now, lips brushing his. John felt as if the fire had escaped the hearth, and was burning merrily inside of him. "When I kiss you, when I touch you, there are no human words to describe the sensations, the emotions. You are a force of nature and divine epiphany all in one."

"Show me." John begged, undone. Their breath mingled, Sherlock's curls brushing across his face, shivers of heat and lust building, cresting inside of his gut, snapping like static in the dry winter air. "Show me how you feel, Sherlock."

It was a kiss so slow and wonderful that John felt like he had left time behind, and was living in an eternal moment. Sherlock's lips were firm and gentle, moist and warm. John's eyes drifted shut, and he brought at hand to Sherlock's jaw. His detective pressed closer, his hands wrapping around the back of his doctor's neck.

John brought up his free hand, and snagged Sherlock's shirt collar. He kept their lips together, and leaned back, pulling Sherlock from his chair. Sherlock came willingly, and straddled John's hips in his red chair, resting in his lap. John put his hands on the other man's waist, his detective wrapping an arm around his shoulders, one hand behind his head.

John groaned softly as Sherlock deepened the kiss, his tongue slipping in his mouth, touching his tongue before flitting away. Sherlock's weight on him was pleasant, grounding him as his heart threatened to fly free from his chest. John kissed him back, their tongues dancing, touching, and teasing in light easy strokes. Air was unnecessary, their bodies thriving off the other, feeding the flames between them on the chair, an inferno building in the deep.

John tugged Sherlock's shirt free from his waistband, fingers gliding lovingly over smooth, pale skin, lean tight muscles. Sherlock shivered, moaning softly in John's mouth. The kiss went deeper, pressure harder, John growling deep in his chest. Sherlock lifted his face, wet lips glistening in the light from the fire, eyes as vibrant as jewels.

"John." Sherlock brushed his lips over the doctor's, pulling back just enough to keep John from capturing his mouth.

"Yes?" John gasped out, the word nothing but a wisp of air. He wanted nothing more than to keep kissing his love, his gaze fixed on those delicious lips so close to his.

"Bedroom." Sherlock said, and slipped off his lap before he could protest. Sherlock caught one of his hands, tugging him to his feet.

Sherlock walked backwards down the hall, pulling John in for a quick wet kiss before backing away again. His eyes were glowing, lips plump from their kisses, hands flirting across his torso in light strokes and caresses. Tempting him, beguiling him, Sherlock seduced him down the hall, opening the bedroom door wide with his shoulders as he pulled John over the threshold.

"I'm going to show you, John." Sherlock's voice came out from the darkness, disembodied and deep, overwhelmingly sexy.

The room was cast in shadows, and Sherlock shut the door, throwing the lock. John tried to reach for him, pull him in, but Sherlock kept just out of reach. He moved behind John, hands warm and heavy on his shoulders, and he pressed a gentle kiss to the nape of John's neck. His breath moved the short blonde strands, and goose bumps rose up all over John's body in response. Sherlock moved in the shadows, soundless as a ghost. He glided in the darkness to John's front, clever fingers racing lightly across his chest, and began unbuttoning his shirt.

John went to help, but Sherlock pulled away, and he got the hint. He dropped his arms, and let Sherlock touch him as he wanted. His fingers came back, and undid John's shirt, tugging the fabric back away from his chest and shoulders. It fell to the floor, a wisp of movement in the quiet room. John resisted the urge to close his eyes, wanting to see everything he could.

He whimpered when Sherlock's lips touched his collar bone. Little, tender kisses along his left shoulder, to the scar that graced him even now, years after the shot that ended his military career. It was faded, and slightly rough, but Sherlock kissed it, tongue tracing the lines and dips carefully. He let his head fall back, eyes shutting, and Sherlock put his hands to his waistband. Long fingers opened his fly, tugged off his belt, and with sublime grace, unzipped his trousers.

Sherlock split John's attention, his mind and body focused on his lips and tongue on his shoulder, and his fingers dipping through fabric to touch his erection as it strained to get free. Sherlock loosened his trousers, and kissed his way down John's chest. John gasped loudly, and it took everything he had not to reach out, to bury his fingers in Sherlock's hair as his love kissed his way further south, his teeth nipping lightly on his stomach. He curled his hands into fists, shaking in need as Sherlock pulled his trousers and underwear off his hips, down past his thighs.

Sherlock knelt at his feet, and John trembled, thoughts running dark and hot with lust. Sherlock helped him out of his boots, his socks, and he stepped out of his clothing, totally naked in front of his lover. His erection was hard and full, and John was panting in need as Sherlock brought his face to rest on John's hip. He rubbed his lips over the muscular thigh of his doctor, licking and nibbling his way to John's groin.

When Sherlock finally took him in his mouth, wet and tight over the head of his cock, John lifted his hands, crying out. He buried his hands in his own hair, digging in his scalp to keep his hands from reaching for his lover. Sherlock hummed in approval, and took him deeper. His mouth was wet, and so hot, liquid fire burning him as Sherlock slowly engulfed him. Took him as deep as he could go, nudging the back of his throat. Sherlock swallowed around him, and John swore and cried all at once, tears of joy and need springing to his eyes. His tongue writhed under his cock, licking in the wet paradise of his mouth as he pulled away, lips tight.

John was sobbing quietly, body jerking as Sherlock freed him inch by inch, the air cool on his cock as the moist skin was exposed. His tongue lapped at the head, following the ridges, humming happily when he tasted the sweet salty drops leaking out.

John was destroyed, happily surrendering his mind to the delicious chaos Sherlock was brewing with his mouth and hands. He sobbed, hearing his own cries echo in the bedroom, and he quaked in joy as Sherlock took him deep again. Each swallow, lick, breath of air past his cock knocked down a piece of John's soul, evaporating the man, leaving nothing but love and lust. Cool invigorating air fueled the inferno raging in his chest, the fire beast named lust roaring to be released.

Time disappeared. The universe dissolved, flying into pieces, just the two of them in this endless instant. There was nothing more wonderful and real than the man at his feet, the man he loved with every fiber of his being, who was doing impossible things to his heart and body, with wet mouth and clever hands. Again and again his detective upended the world under his feet, tipped the sun on its side, and rearranged the heavens. John found himself in love to a degree and capacity he knew was beyond mortal limits.

Sherlock showed John just how much he loved him, kneeling in front of the man he worshipped above all others, hands holding his love, giving pleasure so selflessly. Each stroke drove John to an edge, and he was crying out, Sherlock in total command of his body. John was gone. He was a rioting storm of sensation. Sherlock increased his pace, sucking harder, lips tighter, pulling him as deep as he could, and with one last swallow, Sherlock pushed John off the brink.

His orgasm ripped itself free from his chest, his full throated shout of joy and release loud in the silent room. He came, and Sherlock groaned around his cock, swallowing the think jets of cum, the liquid hot and searing, delicious. He swallowed every drop, the salty and heavy taste of John filling his senses.

John screamed, and his hands finally acted of their own accord, coming down to hold Sherlock's head tightly to his groin. He jerked, and Sherlock stilled, letting the waves roll over his love, being so careful in this highly sensitized moment. He pulled back, as John finished, sucking away traces of his orgasm as he did.

Sherlock rested his head in John's hands, his fingers cool on his hot face. John stroked his fingers over chiseled cheekbones, wet from tears he hadn't noticed Sherlock shedding.

John wavered on his feet, and Sherlock stood slowly, as he had no more strength in his legs than John did. He put an arm around John's waist, and picked him up, dropping them both on the bed, bouncing together once before subsiding.

John came back to reality slowly, resting on Sherlock's chest. His detective was still dressed, arms wrapped tightly around John's shoulders, holding him securely.

John moved his head, barely able to do even that, so tranquil he had trouble finding his muscles, much less telling them to work. He met Sherlock's eyes, bright in the shadows. They stared at each other, blinking slowly, eyes heavy and both of them radiating contentment.

"I….. " John gasped out, doing his best to stay awake. "Wow."

Sherlock laughed, his deep voice rumbling under John's ear. He hugged his doctor tighter, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

"I love you." Sherlock whispered, and John felt those words as if hearing them for the first time. "I am nothing, nothing but my love for you."

"Sherlock…." John sought his love's lips, kissing him. He tasted traces of himself on Sherlock's lips, and was pleasantly surprised to feel a lick of heat flash in his core. Only this man. He was addicting. "I love you, forever. I will always love you."

* * *

><p>Sherlock left John sleeping in their bed, his doctor buried under the covers. They'd dozed for a while, before John fell so deeply asleep he didn't stir when Sherlock maneuvered him under the blankets. He gazed down at the man he loved, a smug smile on his lips.<p>

He left the room, closing the door so it was only open a few inches. John had a habit of waking up if he couldn't hear Sherlock through the door if he wasn't in bed with him. As if he feared Sherlock would disappear if he lost track of him. Sherlock sympathized. John had been taken from him before, and that terror he felt when Moriarty took John would never really leave him.

He went to the kitchen, and frowned at the remains of the table. He hadn't really been thinking things through when he tried out the 'smokeless' fire compound he was attempting to perfect. It was a liquid that burned without visible smoke, and he had decided to see how long it would take to burn through the solid wood of the table. He was glad he hadn't used too much, since it most likely would have burnt through the floor to the café below, and in to Mrs. Hudson's flat. That wouldn't have been an easy thing to get away with.

Sherlock went to the front room, and pushed every item on the desk against the wall, uncaring that he spilled documents and objects to the floor. He stopped, looked over his shoulder, and caught the faint breathy snores of his doctor. John hadn't woken up yet.

Sherlock went for is equipment, lifting the heavy microscope easily, managing to avoid tripping over the cord as it snaked around his feet. He set up his equipment on the desk, everything he needed to analyze the slides he'd managed to get from the traces of the film on Donovan's glove. The substance had been difficult, and he'd noticed signs of accelerated cellular degeneration at the pathology labs before his concentration went to hell. It was an organic compound of some kind, and it had a nagging sense of familiarity to it.

Sherlock dug out the samples from his still wet coat, and began prepping slides. It was dark out now, the days short and the light dull. He added wood to the fire, and turned on everything, rearranging the lamps in the room to give him better light.

He went to work, the tasks and tests so habitual he moved on muscle memory. He'd stop, take some notes, and go back to peering through the scope. Every slide he saw, every test, drove him closer to a conclusion he didn't want to acknowledge. He recognized parts of the compound, the synthetic portions that resisted breaking down. The organic elements were nearly past the point of recognition. If it had been anyone else, they may not have known what they were seeing. A lesser man would have thought the samples and slides contaminated. Sherlock saw the whole of it, and he sucked in a deep breath. He knew this substance well.

The killer at the nursery hadn't been murdered. He had been killed by the substance, yes. But it wasn't murder in the strictest sense. What Sherlock was seeing was a drug, one that broke down quickly when exposed to warm temperatures. If maintained at freezing or just below, it was stable and easily stored for long periods of time. But the second it was consumed, or left for longer than a couple of hours at room temperature, it broke down to its separate elements. If administered orally, injected, or placed on skin to be absorbed, it acted fast. Incredibly fast. With unpredictable and sometimes violent results, and could kill you if the dosage wasn't perfectly tailored to the person taking it. But if you got the right dosage, the effects were euphoric, addictive, and intensely psychedelic.

The drug was one that Sherlock had seen years before, while working on a drug ring case for Lestrade. It was once called Winter's Night. It was an amalgamation of an organic hallucinogen derived from a type of morning glory flower, _Turbina corymbosa _or _Rivea corymbosa, _'The Christmas Vine', and a combination of cocaine and LSD. It was incredibly difficult to make and preserve, and the going price of it had been exorbitant. Due to the highly addictive nature of the drug, and the fact it had to be stored cold, it had been sold during the winter months, at clubs and private parties.

It had been a scourge in London during the Christmas season years ago, and Sherlock had known that if someone out there had learned to stabilize it, perfect it for mass production, it would have exploded across the nation. An unstoppable nightmare. One he knew personally.

He had worked the case for Lestrade, years before he met John. And in the process of doing so, had taken Winter's Night. It had become an obsession, and he knew it was against all odds that he hadn't destroyed himself working that case. He had the experience to tailor the drug to his individual metabolism, and it had worked to perfection. And he had been consumed by it.

Sherlock had studied it, experimented with the drug. And he had found the way to stabilize it. He had been so tempted, in his addiction, to produce it for himself. And he had nearly succumbed.

Sherlock felt sick, his stomach rolling. He pushed away from the desk, staggered to the hearth. He rested his hands on the mantle, and stared into the flames. He closed his eyes, and tried to settle his racing heart. He had escaped the drug's hold. Mycroft had roped him in after the crime boss who was manufacturing the drug was found dead in the river. The case had been closed, the drug flow had stopped, and Sherlock imploded. Mycroft had dragged him home, kicking and screaming, and forced sobriety on him. It had taken weeks, but he had come out from under it.

He had emerged scarred, stricken, and vulnerable. He had used other drugs on and off in the years since, but never Winter's Night. He had never thought to be confronted by that most dangerous and delightful poison again.

Someone out there in London was attempting to perfect Winter's Night. Was trying to make it stable enough for mass production. The nursery must have been where they were growing the flowers for the drug. And something had gone wrong.

Sherlock pushed off from the mantle, and went to the window. His violin was in its case below the sill, and he bent over, pulling it free. He put it to his chin, grabbed the bow, and closed his eyes. The music came, and he let it flow, trying to settle his mind and body.

* * *

><p>The jet landed at Heathrow, taxiing in at a private hangar. The night was young, the air cold and wet. Rain storms had buffeted the small jet as it entered British airspace, making the last few minutes of flight interesting.<p>

Silas Williamson exited the aircraft, glad to be free from the small space, his men filing out behind him. His cars were waiting, all bearing the diplomatic flags of the United States. The State Department had a vehicle waiting as well, and the rear door opened, a thin, young man getting out. His contact in London for the duration of his stay.

Williamson went straight to his contact, one brow raised. He had no time for pleasantries. He had a rogue agent to hunt.

"Sir." The young man stammered, eyes incapable of meeting his for longer than a second. "Your residence has been set up according to your specifications. Diplomatic credentials are assigned to you and your team."

"Good. And what of the Iceman?" Williamson demanded.

"Mr. Holmes is expecting you at your earliest convenience, sir." He gulped, and handed over a slim package. "Which I think means now."

"He hasn't changed, I see. Good, that means we should have little trouble." Williamson put the package under his arm, and walked away. He signaled to his men, and they allotted themselves in the vehicles, two with him, the others to their residence to begin the search.

He would greet his counterpart at MI6, see how much Holmes was hiding, and then work around him. If he was willing to cooperate, then this mission shouldn't last longer than a week. If Mycroft Holmes decided to give him trouble, it still shouldn't take longer than a week, but Britain would be short one spymaster.

* * *

><p>Violet sat on Anthea's bed, eating the British equivalent of a hamburger, remote in the other hand, scrolling through channels on the TV.<p>

"Violet, you're getting crumbs on the duvet." Anthea murmured absently, holding two earrings up, comparing them in the mirror over her vanity. She had to leave soon, something or other about an important guest stopping by to see Mycroft. Violet hadn't been interested, automatically bored. If she wanted to know, all she had to do was hack MI6 later, get all the deets.

"Sorry." She mumbled around a mouth full of burger, standing up and getting crumbs on the carpet instead. "And who names things here anyway? Who thought up 'duvet'?"

"I believe that was the French, dear. I'm sorry about this, we weren't told our guest was arriving until after I invited you over." Anthea chose the pearls, a good choice, and picked up her heels.

"No problem. I'll just hide up here." Violet found a good show, something or other about clones living separate lives. Sexy chick played all the roles.

"You do that." Anthea laughed softly, kissing Violet on the cheek. "I don't believe our guest would appreciate family hour at the Holmes' household."

"I have that effect on most people." Violet said, giggling.

"I believe that effect to be genetic, dear. I'll be back." Anthea waved at her, leaving her room, closing the door behind her.

Violet jumped back up on the bed, bouncing, and she turned up the TV. John usually watched crap TV, and Sherlock never watched. He would catch the news on occasion, and if a trash show was on in the morning while John was up and about, he would spend hours correcting people's grammar. She never got a chance with the remote anyways, so she was going to enjoy herself. Mycroft had all the premium channels, too.

She cheered when crazy blonde clone smacked the smart ass brunette clone, completely forgetting she should probably be quiet.

* * *

><p>Mycroft looked up as Anthea came in his public office, dressed differently than she had been earlier. He raised a brow, seeing the signs, and huffed quietly in annoyance. Violet must be here then.<p>

"I trust she knows better than to interrupt?" Mycroft said, ignoring the glare Anthea tossed his way.

"Does Greg know the same?" Anthea quipped, and he found himself grinning. Rarely did she show her claws, but she had them for certain. She smiled back at him, checking her mobile.

"The Vicar is three minutes out, sir. Anything you want from me?" Anthea asked, standing at his side in front of his desk.

"Watch him. The usual." Mycroft murmured. "Watch his people."

"Of course." Anthea left, heading for the front of the house. She would greet their guests, and bring them to Mycroft.

He would greet them here in his public office, not the one adjacent to the bunker under the house. He felt it best not to broadcast where he really did business.

* * *

><p>Anthea waited patiently in the foyer beside the stairs, accustomed to greeting high priority guests. Though never one with such an <em>interesting<em> profile. Silas Williamson was the top rated trainer, field section chief, and now Director for Special Operations for the CIA, and he had a perfect field record. Not to mention he was supposed to be a heartless bastard.

Anthea wasn't intimidated at all. She had been working for Mycroft Holmes the last five years.

She heard the cars pull up at the curb, and straightened her jacket. The guards stationed outside the doors opened them wide, admitting Williamson and two escorts. She quickly evaluated the escorts, dismissing them as the standard CIA field officers. Deadly, but no more than she. Easily handled.

Williamson looked exactly like his pictures, and she saw him evaluating her as she did the same to him. He was carrying a slim folder case under his arm, and there was a spattering of rain drops in his dark brown hair. It was streaked with grey at his temples, and he had a few lines near his eyes, but he was in his prime, and moved like it. He was handsome, in that typical American fashion, but no more than average. Enough to charm, but not enough to be remembered unless he chose. Middle age was running away from Silas Williamson.

She saw him make his initial judgment of her, meet her eyes, and then rethink his assessment. She nodded, unperturbed that he saw past her usual secretary façade. He saw the former field agent, and his eyes tracked to her waistline, where her gun was hidden under her jacket.

"Welcome to London, Director Williamson. You may call me Anthea. If you would follow me please, Mr. Holmes is looking forward to seeing you." Anthea greeted the CIA officer, smiling pleasantly.

"Thank you, Anthea. What a lovely name." Williamson shook her hand, a bland but polite smile on his face. "Do lead on, I prefer not to drag this out."

Anthea smiled, eyes shuttered, and she waved graciously down the hall. He followed her, his two men a few steps behind. She knew they were armed, by the way they were not touching their left arms closer to their torsos. Shoulder holsters.

She cast her eyes over Williamson, and saw no sign of a weapon. That meant nothing, really. He most likely had a knife on him somewhere, or a small caliber gun in an ankle holster. Not to mention he would be exceedingly proficient in hand to hand combat. He had been a trainer at the Farm for a decade.

Anthea knocked on the door of Mycroft's public office, before opening the door and waving the men in before her. She had enough to form a profile on Williamson once their guests left. It was the spymaster's turn, now.

She took up her station as she shut the door, in the rear of the room. Mycroft would be able to see her, and she him, their guests between them. Williamson's men stayed at his back as he greeted Mycroft, slightly off to the side. Anthea watched them all, acting for the entire world like an aide and not a highly trained MI6 operative ferociously loyal to her own director.

She didn't just answer the phones, or get him coffee. It was her job to protect him, no matter the threat. And she would, even if it cost her life.

* * *

><p>"Have a seat, Silas." Mycroft welcomed Director Williamson in, waved him to a chair. "Can Anthea get you anything?"<p>

"Scotch, no ice. Thank you." Williamson sat, folder on one knee. "Let's get to business. I want my rogue officer. I will get her."

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, a reserved look on his face. He ran his eyes over the CIA director, and saw from the relaxed slope of his shoulders, the way he held his jaw, and the steely glint in his eyes that Williamson was deadly serious, and only here as a courtesy call.

"And I have been ordered to assist. We have not found her. There has been no sighting of Mary Morstan since the night Blackwood Manor exploded."

"I have little faith in your 'assistance', Mycroft. From all accounts, your brother and his lover were the last people to see her. Seems the easy solution was to not let her go." Silas snapped, a thread of anger evident in his voice. He didn't react to Anthea placing his drink in front of him on the desk.

Mycroft took the scotch Anthea offered him, scenting it before taking a sip. He swirled it, and held the glass, ignoring Silas' outburst. No one raised their voice to him, not in his own house.

"Mary Morstan was instrumental in stopping Jaime Moriarty, and saving hundreds of lives that night. She risked her life to stop a madwoman." Mycroft murmured slowly, ignoring Silas as the other man tightened his jaw. "And detaining her was not a priority at the time. Nor was it my brother's job to arrest her."

"And it was your brother who theorized she blew up CAM Tower, and killed Magnussen. She is an active threat, and a liability to both our governments. Let's cut the bullshit, Mycroft Holmes. Your brother, his lover- who happens to be her former fiancé- let Morstan go, and I believe they know where she is. They will tell me."

"Will they now?" Mycroft kept his cool, and let nothing slip past the mask. He had suspected for weeks now that both Sherlock and John knew where Morstan was. What Mycroft didn't know was why they were hiding her, and even more so, why she hadn't fled the country. It would have been the smart move, and Mary Morstan was a smart woman. Quick tempered, but intelligent. She shouldn't still be here. Something was keeping her here, in London.

Mycroft had a tail on Sherlock and John, had for years. And while they had routinely evaded his surveillance teams in the past, Dr. Watson was doing it with steady frequency, twice a week for the last several weeks. As if he was visiting someone. Violet would disappear with him, and Mycroft had yet to figure out where they were going.

"Yes they will. I was guaranteed your cooperation, and I'll have it. They can talk to me, tell me where she is, or I will go through all of you to get her. I will not hesitate to destroy every one of you."

Williamson stood abruptly, and opened the folder case. Mycroft watched, ice filling his veins, as the CIA officer pulled out a stack of photos.

"Your brother, Sherlock. Drug addict, part time spy, and now a sexual deviant. Regularly breaks the law to solve cases. Sociopath, and loose cannon." He tossed a large glossy photo down on the desk, and Mycroft caught it as it slid across the surface to him. It showed Sherlock, taken at a distance, picking the lock on a door of a warehouse or business, John at his back, gun out.

"Doctor John Watson, formerly of the British Army, Captain. Now he's a pervert too. Almost tipped the scales on alcoholism a few years back when your brother faked his death. Adrenaline junkie. Decent enough doctor, but has a violent streak, and isn't afraid to kill to protect his partner. He's done so a few times already. I'd call him a psychopath."

Another photo was tossed his way, one of John walking outside of his flat, Violet on his arm.

"And may I offer congratulations on the recent discovery of your niece? Your dead brother's daughter, I believe. Wasn't he that serial killer flaying women alive in the English countryside several years ago? And she's a real peach, that one. Breaks the law as soon as she wakes up in the morning. Hacker, been active for over fifteen years. Nothing sticks, but we know who she is, and what she can do."

"Excellent photography. My compliments to whoever took these. What is your point?" Mycroft carefully put his glass down, knowing full well that Williamson was attempting to intimidate him. He'd heard worse, from his own people no less.

"My point is simple. No blackmail, no threats of revealing anything, no extortion. I know who you care about, I know their habits, their schedules, and their weaknesses. I can get to them at any time. And I will remove them all from this world if I don't get what want." Williamson picked up his glass, drank down the scotch, and slammed the crystal down on the desk. "I don't care what country I'm in, you cannot stop me."

"And I will start with him." He tossed one last picture, and Mycroft felt his mask slip. It was a picture of Greg, in a wheelchair being rolled out of the hospital to his Jaguar. The air in his lungs seared him, ice cold and necrotic, and his heart thumped loudly in his ears.

"You touch any of them, I will kill you." Mycroft whispered his eyes locked on Williamson's. "I have killed for worse than you."

"I'm not your psychopath big brother. Your masters have tied your hands, Mycroft Holmes. And I've got your balls." Williamson left the photos on the desk, tossing the case on top of them. He nodded his head, a pleasant smile back on his face.

"Full cooperation, Mycroft. Everything you have. I will be visiting your brother soon, and he had better answer my questions. I'll see myself out." He turned away, not bothering to hear Mycroft's reply.

Anthea opened the door, and she escorted the Americans from the room. Mycroft breathed out, struggling to maintain his equilibrium. That arrogant bastard had threatened Gregory, his family. He would never do so again.

He would assist in the search for Mary Morstan, as ordered, but no more. And he would attempt to keep Sherlock in line, no matter how futile such an endeavor was. Williamson had made a fatal mistake. By threatening his people, threatening the man he loved, Silas Williamson just lost the best asset he had on British soil in his hunt for Mary Morstan.

And if Williamson made one aggressive move towards any of Mycroft's family, he was well prepared to start a war to protect them.

…


	41. Falling Under Its Sway

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me. **

**WARNING: SEXY Scenes with Mycroft(!) and Violence. **

**Read, enjoy, review!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Forty One<strong>

"_**Falling Under Its Sway"**_

Mycroft picked up the crystal glass, and threw it at the wall, shards exploding out across the room on impact. He ran a hand shaking from anger through his hair, and swore loudly, glad he was alone. A rain of crystal shards littered the floor, winking like diamonds in the lights.

_Cool, calm, stay calm. No matter how much I want order a missile strike on his flat, I must be calm. Peace, I need peace…I cannot protect him …protect them if I blind myself with rage._

The insult and threat Silas Williamson had offered in Mycroft's home was bitter in the air, leaving a metallic taste in his mouth as he pulled in a lungful, exhaling as much of his anger as he could.

His temper, though rarely unleashed, frightened even him in its intensity. All of the Holmes brothers had tempers. All three of them, from the brutal Sherrinford, to the icy Mycroft, down to the mercurial Sherlock. All of them cursed by temper to match their intellect. Disregard and impatience for those who couldn't keep up, for those who called them freaks or monsters, the idiots of the world who thought themselves so smart. Each of them had to learn to master their tempers in order to thrive.

All but Sherrin, who had fed the dark wolf in his heart, fed it anger and rage and blood lust.

It was the thought of Sherrin that snapped Mycroft out of his blind rage, though it roiled inside of him. Mycroft would not be anything like his brother. He breathed deep, and returned to his desk, and sat in his chair, relaxing as best he could. Anthea was returning; he had never let her see him like this before, he dare not let her see now.

"Sir?" Anthea called softly from the doorway, one hand holding the door open. Her eyes were worried, their brilliant green clouded. She had lost the impassive mask, and he saw the concern. She had seen the shards on the floor, though she made no comment.

"Yes, dear?" Mycroft stood, picking up the picture of Gregory that Williamson had used to illustrate his threat. He ran a finger over the handsome face of the Detective Inspector. Rage pooled in his gut, and his heart beat loudly in his ears. No one was going to hurt Gregory Lestrade. No matter whom they answered to, or what flag they saluted.

"Are you alright?"

"I will be. I was not expecting that. I should have been, considering who they sent."

Mycroft picked up the rest of the photos, lingering over the one with his brother. Sherlock was the wild card; Mycroft knew that Sherlock was hiding Mary Morstan. The only way she could hide so successfully in London would be if she had Sherlock Holmes helping her. Sherlock would not hide her unless it was important, especially after the events that transpired with Jaime Moriarty. If Williamson didn't get his rogue agent, things were about to get inconvenient.

"You can handle him. You can handle anything, Mycroft." She stated plainly.

He looked up, touched in spite of himself by the faith she had in him. The faith she'd always had in him, even when he'd done nothing to deserve it. He found his rage calming, his muscles relaxing. He needed to think, to plan. He had to protect his heart, and his family. And he couldn't do that with anger eroding his abilities.

"Thank you." Mycroft told her, walking to her side where she stood at the door. He rarely, if ever, said those words to anyone. But he would say them to Anthea.

She took the pictures from him, and to his surprise, lifted up on her toes. She kissed him, on the cheek, one hand braced on his shoulder. Her lips were soft, and he breathed in her perfume. She always wore the same scent, lilacs and some sort of fruit. She pulled back, and gave him that tiny smile, the one that said the world was foolish, but she loved it anyway. That she loved him.

"Tell me what you need." Anthea said. Mycroft held her gaze, not letting on how much she steadied him. He depended on her for so much. He pondered her words, thoughts and plans racing through his mind.

"Sherlock is hiding her. I know it. Violet and John go see her at least twice a week. He is hiding her for a reason. A reason important enough that it keeps a well-trained assassin from fleeing a hostile country. Sherlock hides it from me because he knows I'm hunting for her. But I am not Williamson. I would have been content to let it go on indefinitely. Moriarty was the active threat, and she is dead. Morstan was merely a side note, but I cannot pretend anymore to be looking for her without actually doing anything. The Vicar will hunt for her until she's his, and Sherlock and John will be caught in the crossfire."

"Send him everything we have. Do not send him the surveillance reports on Sherlock and John. He already has Morstan's scent through them, let's not make it easier. Send him the rest of it, though. We shall assist as ordered, but run every request he makes through me, allow nothing out until I approve it."

"I need to see Sherlock before Williamson gets to him. Send a car and guards, he will come." Mycroft told her, his mind spinning out countermeasures, but he got distracted by her expression.

"Of course." Anthea said, her eyes intense. Mycroft saw a glimmer of something in their verdant depths. As if she wanted to say something, but then changed her mind. Her eyes were such a deep green that he could almost swear they weren't real, but emeralds instead. She looked happy, and sad, as if he had done something to make her both at once. She opened her mouth to speak, sucking in a small breath, and she held it for a beat.

"What?" Mycroft asked, wondering what she could possibly want to say to him. Part of him was afraid to know. Afraid she would bare her heart and make him choose. Part of him wanted her too, if only to get it over with. There were only a handful of people in this world he loved past the point of redemption, and she was one of them. If the time ever came that the choice had to be made, he feared losing any one of them as a result.

"Nothing important. I'll take care of everything. Go see him, sir. Go see him, find a calmer place to start from. You always do better when you aren't mad." Anthea smiled one last time, and walked off down the hall, heading for the bunker. He knew whom she was referring to. She always saw what he needed before he did. "I'll send for your brother and Dr. Watson."

He sighed, and closed the door to his public office. This night was not going well. Mycroft hesitated, but only for a moment. Thinking of Greg made the anger evaporate, and the cool, rational place he operated best from settled over his mind. He turned, and went to Greg's room. To the man he loved, and who loved him back. If he could protect this new found love, he could do anything.

* * *

><p>Molly slammed the bathroom door shut, and threw the lock. She jumped back as the door shook under Tom's fist, and she flinched at the obscenities he shouted through the door.<p>

"You slut! I knew it! I'm gonna kill him for real!" Tom yelled, and she cried out as he kicked the door. It held, and she sat on the toilet, staring at it, praying it would continue to hold.

"Tom, stop it! What's gotten into you! Just leave!" Molly screamed back at him, and she did her best not to sound scared. Her face stung where his fist had struck her, and she couldn't stop crying. "He didn't do anything! I kissed him, that's it!"

"Whore! I'm going to teach you who you belong to, slut!" Tom shouted at her through the door, and he kicked again, over and over. The door held, and she was never more thankful to be in a newer flat with heavy doors and high rent in her life. "_I'm going to kill that freak bastard_!"

Molly sobbed into her hands as she heard Tom storm out of the bedroom, charging to the front of the flat. She heard him slam the closet door, presumably grabbing his coat, and the front door followed suit. She sat on the toilet, crying, afraid to see if he was gone, afraid he might be trying to trick her.

Molly had come home earlier, to find Tom out. She had waited hours for him to get home, her engagement ring on the table in front of her, her coat and a small bag next to it. She would leave once she told him everything. She didn't love him enough to marry him. She couldn't marry him, not when her heart belonged to someone else, even if that someone else would never love her back. She had to free herself, learn to be happy on her own, learn to love herself. She had to learn how to love herself, and find happiness on her own, before she could ever find it with someone else.

He had come home a few minutes ago, and she had gotten a sick feeling in her stomach at the sight of him. There had been something off about Tom, something that made her shift nervously on her feet. His eyes were bloodshot, his face flushed, his lips a bluish cast to them, and his hands trembled as he put away his coat.

Tom stood there, staring at her, unblinking, as she explained to him what had happened at the lab that morning. She had been worried that he was getting ill, and that he hadn't heard her. She kept going, refusing to let fear keep her from doing the right thing, all the way up to the kiss.

It was when she confessed to kissing Sherlock that he reacted, his fist flying out from his side, cracking her hard across the face. She had fallen back into the bedroom door, and she was thankful that he hadn't been very stable. If Tom hadn't tripped over his own feet, he would have caught her before she got in the bathroom. Molly almost vomited, thinking about what could have happened if he had gotten his hands on her.

Molly got up from the toilet, and carefully went to the door. She listened, and when she heard nothing, risked opening the door. The flat was quiet, no movement. She opened it all the way, and stepped out to the bedroom, eyes towards the front of the flat. Nothing, he was gone.

Molly sprinted for her coat, and dug for her mobile. She dialed Sherlock, mobile to her ear, and she ran for the front door, hearing it ring out. She locked the flat door, and put the chain up.

_Please answer, please answer… I'm so sorry Sherlock, please answer….._

Sherlock answered on the fourth ring, and she dropped to the floor, never so thankful to hear his voice.

"Molly?"

"Sherlock, Tom's coming for you. I'm so sorry, I told him I couldn't marry him, and he's coming for you!" She sobbed out, biting her knuckle hard, pain pushing her past the tears. "I'm sorry."

"When did he leave?" His voice was calm, even, and she clung to the sound of it.

"Less than five minutes ago. Sherlock, I think he's high. He was really off when he got home." Molly stammered, trying to calm herself. "He just went insane…"

She heard the sound of Sherlock moving around wherever he was. She thought she heard John in the background, wondering what was going on. Hearing John's voice made Molly cringe, guilt swamping her.

"He hurt you, didn't he?" Sherlock said, voice low, deep, and so dark it sent shivers down her spine.

"That's not important! Sherlock, I'm sorry." Molly sobbed quietly, unable to think past her shock, guilt and pain. Shame clouded her heart. She did this.

"Molly, I will handle him. Lock the doors, and call Donovan." Sherlock ordered her, his voice snapping her out of her tears. "Call Donovan _NOW."_

The line went dead. Molly bit her lips, and tasted blood. The sharp taste woke her up, and she dialed Sally. Sherlock sounded mad enough to commit murder.

* * *

><p>"She say what he was high on?" John asked him as he got dressed. He tucked his shirt in his waistband, and then sat on the bed, tugging his boots back on.<p>

Sherlock had woken him up as he was on the phone with Molly, turning on the bedroom lights and tugging off the covers.

Sherlock grabbed John's gun from the nightstand, handing it over to his doctor without asking.

"No, all she said was he went insane." Sherlock replied, his ears straining, listening to the lower level. Mrs. Hudson was out Christmas shopping, and would be for a while. Woman loved to shop. "John, he hurt Molly."

John stopped tying his boot laces, and met Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock gave his love a feral grin, seeing a growing anger in the doctor's eyes to rival the fury in his heart. The doppelgänger was going to regret every breath he'd ever taken.

They exited the bedroom, heading for the front. John took up station at one of the windows, angled behind a curtain so he wouldn't be seen. Sherlock went to his coat, palming his knife, and slunk down the stairs, turning off the hall lights as he did. He moved down, in the darkness of the foyer, and went to the front doors. He unlocked the front door, and moved back, in the shadows on the other side of the unlit fireplace. He waited.

He heard John on the phone above him, calling the police. They would arrive too late to stop him. Tom should be here any moment, and Sherlock would show him the great error he had made in touching Molly in anger. No one, NO ONE, would ever hurt her again.

He didn't have long to wait, as he heard a cab stop outside on the curb. A car door slammed, and the cab pulled away fast, tires squealing. He breathed low and slow, keeping his heart rate calm. His rage was threatening to erode his better judgment. He wanted blood.

"Sherlock, he's here." John whispered down to him. He stayed upstairs, but Sherlock could tell that he was on the upper section of stairs, halfway between the landing and the flat. "And I think she's right, he's not acting normally."

A man in a long dark coat slammed through the front door, crashed through the inner one, and rocketed past Sherlock. Doppelgänger Tom landed against the stair railing, clutching the wooden post.

"_Where are you?! You ruinous bastard_!" Tom shouted up the stairs. "_How long have you been fucking that slut?!_"

John walked down the stairs, gun up, and stopped above the intruder on the landing. He aimed for Tom's head, finger on the trigger.

"Shut the fuck up, sit down, and I won't kill you." John said, anger lacing every word. His eyes were no longer blue, but a deep slate grey, the color of storm clouds. "Take another step, and I will end you."

Tom was panting, breathing so hard spit was falling from his lips. His fingers dug like claws into the wood railing, and he was moving like he was on a ship, and not dry land. He made a sound, a wordless growl and shriek all in one, and raised a foot to climb the stairs.

Sherlock leapt from the shadows, the knife in his hand, hilt flipped forwards. He barreled in to the madman, throwing his full weight behind the blow to the back of Tom's head. No one was more shocked than Sherlock when Tom didn't go down. He turned, inhumanly fast, and grabbed Sherlock by his shoulders, throwing him back. He launched himself at Sherlock, arms up. He flew into a rage, blows raining on the detective's head, fingers scratching, teeth bared.

Sherlock dodged what he could, keeping the edge side of the knife out of play as much as possible. Tom caught him in the side, and Sherlock felt a deep twinge of pain from his ribs, still recovering after being broken over a month ago. Sherlock stopped being careful, and fell into berserker mode.

Sherlock roared out his own rage, swinging his arm wide, blade free and flashing in the dark. He caught the madman across the chest, laying him open in a gash several inches long. Tom didn't even blink, and kept coming at Sherlock, face a rictus of madness. Sherlock saw the bloodshot eyes, the blue tint to his lips, and the deep shadows under his eyes. Every blow Sherlock gave Tom merely incited him further. Insanity had come 221B, and Winter's Night had followed.

Sherlock heard John shouting at him to get out of the way, but he pushed the doctor's voice aside, blocking with one arm and slashing with the other. He was fighting someone who was less a man and more rabid animal, and he changed his style accordingly. Strike fast, dodge, strike again. Tom was shrieking, having lost the ability to form words, a savage howling reverberating throughout the flats.

Sherlock slashed at his joints, his wrists, elbows, and the top of his shoulders, and with each slice, he slowed the drugged madman. Sherlock reveled in every cut, a feral snarl warping his lips in brutal glee, and he fought the madness that invaded his home.

Blood was falling in steady streams, and Sherlock reigned in his rage, knowing he shouldn't kill Tom, no matter how much he may feel the urge. He was having trouble seeing past the knowledge this man had hurt Molly. He had yet to give a fatal blow, even though he wanted to land it with every breath he took.

Sherlock saw John coming up behind Tom, gun up, aimed for his head. John was going to kill Tom if he didn't end this now. Sherlock shoved Tom away, and followed him across the foyer, catching him with an undercut with the knife hilt fisted, throwing his head back. He kept moving, and threw a left, smashing his fist to the man's temple.

Tom fell to his knees, blood dripping from his nose and mouth. He was bleeding copiously from numerous cuts and gashes, air gurgling through a broken nose. He tried to stand, determined to keep coming for Sherlock, even in his beaten state. The detective raised his arm, preparing to strike again, but John beat him to it. The army doctor pistol whipped the crazed man across the skull, and he fell over backwards, finally out.

"Christ." John gasped out, and he bent over cautiously, feeling at Tom's neck for a pulse. John exhaled, and gave Sherlock a look that was half awe, and half exasperation. "Bastard's alive."

John pulled out his mobile, and Sherlock leaned against the dead fireplace, smearing blood over the white paint. He caught his reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall, and he grinned at the streaks of blood across his face. The air in the foyer smelled of blood and sweat, and there was the hint of flowers on the edges of his awareness. John was calling for an ambulance or the police or someone, but Sherlock didn't care. The bastard had hurt Molly, would have hurt John, and had tried to tear him to pieces.

"I got Donovan, she's on her way. She has Molly, too." John said, pocketing his mobile. "Doesn't look like you hit anything too serious, I say we leave the bastard for the medics to mop up."

"Excellent idea, John." Sherlock said, unable to stop grinning. Something was wrong with him, but it felt _so fucking good….._

He began to laugh, and John looked up at him, surprised. The doctor's eyes raced over him, head to toe. Sherlock felt like the dead hearth suddenly sprang to life, and he saw red sparks out of the corners of his eyes. John had a glow cast over him, and Sherlock rode the adrenaline high from the fight. Adrenaline, and something so very intoxicating and familiar.

A strange haze settled over him, and small part of him recognized the sensation. He looked down at his wrist, the hand that held the knife, and saw a tiny slick of shiny liquid on his skin. Tom was high on Winter's Night, and gotten some of it on him during the fight. No wonder he had gone insane…

He struggled, and shook his head, wondering what he was worried about. John was looking at him, all wonderful and here and his… Red, living fire wreathed John, vibrant in the dimly lit foyer. The hallucination hit Sherlock hard, a punch to the gut.

_He's mine! John Watson is MINE._

Sherlock growled past his laughter, and faster than thought, stabbed the knife point down in the mantle, and he grabbed John's shoulder with his other hand. He yanked his man to him, crushing his doctor's lips under his, tongue pushing deep in John's mouth, hands like steel bands around his hips.

John gasped, as Sherlock ravaged his mouth, growling deep in his chest. He pushed, daring John to respond in kind, challenging his own passion to ignite. John exploded in his arms, wrapping his around Sherlock's torso, tight and hard, plastering his body to his detective. They kissed each other as if they were fighting, mouths battling for dominance, tongues sparring.

This tiny taste of Winter's Night would not last long, and it seduced Sherlock as his body burned in this flash fire between him and his lover.

Sherlock spun John, pushing him hard to the wall, arms caging him. He ground his hips against John, who moaned at the friction, arms wrapping around Sherlock's neck. Wet hot kisses, teeth biting at each other's lips, deep groans buried under gasping breaths for air. John jumped in his arms, legs going around Sherlock's hips, hands buried in dark wild curls. Sherlock pushed them both hard to the wall, John returning each savage advance with matching fervor.

They most likely would have kept going if not for the high pitched scream from Mrs. Hudson, who was standing in the doorway, hands to her face. There were shopping bags dropped to the floor around her feet, wrapped presents strewn every which way.

She screamed at the bloody man at the base of the stairs, and screamed again when they broke apart, John dropping to the floor, startling her. Sherlock fell back against the wall, John panting next to him. John had stopped burning to his eyes, and Sherlock shook his head, the lethargy caused by that brief taste of Winter's Night seeping in his bones, his mind.

"Twice in two days?" Mrs. Hudson cried out, exasperated. "I'm raising your rent, boys!"

* * *

><p>Violet heard a door close, and crept out of Anthea's room, heading for the stairs. She was barefoot, and the cold marble floors felt great on her toes. Her short tank and even shorter shorts provided no protection from the cold winter air absorbed by the stone floors, but she didn't mind one bit. She had been in bed, waiting for her uncle to stop holding up her date night, but gave up pretending she had any patience after twenty minutes.<p>

She ran light-footed to the end of the hall, and looked down the stairs. She caught a glimpse of Mycroft's tall shadow heading for Greg's room, and she grinned. Mr. Not Involved was neck deep in love with Lestrade, and weirdly enough, Lestrade loved him back. But who was she to judge love? She shared more than just blood with her uncles; love was love.

Violet peered over the railing, but saw no sign of Anthea. She frowned, and decided she might as well go exploring. Her girl was probably in the bunker.

Violet knew the layout of Mycroft's house better than he did. She knew exactly where the 'secret' bunker was, and just how to get in. She usually hacked her uncle from her computer, but she figured she needed sneaking practice, so sneak she did. Violet hopped down the stairs, and took the long hall to the back of the house, breezing past Greg's room, noting the shut door and stifling a giggle.

_Mycroft and Gregory, sitting in a tree…. Eeeww, Mycroft kissing someone, oh my poor brain!_

Violet ran around the corner, grabbing the wall as she did, swinging herself down the short flight of stairs to the bunker's level. She skipped to the door, and eyed the panel. It was still active, which meant someone had been through the door in the last few minutes.

Crossing her fingers that it was Anthea, and not Mycroft, Violet raised her other hand, and placed it flat on the palm reader. She had borrowed a trick from crazy girl Moriarty, and added her palm print and name to the access list to Mycroft's bunker. She didn't know if it would work, right up until the lights flashed green, and the door locks disengaged.

_Violet Hunter, One point; Mycroft Holmes, Zero._

She slipped through the doorway, and came up short. Anthea was standing a few feet away, arms crossed, one deliciously sexy foot tapping away in Jimmy Choo black leather heels.

"Ummm…. Oops?" Violet grinned.

* * *

><p>Molly huddled in the back of Donovan's car, wrapped in a blanket, sitting with her feet outside the open door. It was still raining, the drops ice frigid, and a few degrees colder, it would be snowing. Baker Street was a mess, patrol cars and ambulances crowding the small street. She watched past the chaos of people as Tom was wheeled into an ambulance, restrained and handcuffed to the stretcher. Sherlock had beaten him brutally, but seeing as how Tom had come to and tried to rip the face off of a paramedic, no one was thinking it had been overkill. She shuddered, watching the ambulance carrying her now ex-fiancé out of sight.<p>

Donovan had arrived at her flat at the same time she had gotten a call from John, and instead of sending someone else to deal with Tom, had bundled Molly in her car, and sent everyone to Baker Street. Molly had cried quietly the entire way to Sherlock's flat, terrified equally that Sherlock was hurt, and that Tom might be dead. Sally had told her nothing beyond the fact that Sherlock had stopped Tom. Ambulances were on the way.

"Molly?" She jumped at that voice, and lowered her head, too ashamed to meet John's eyes. He was a couple of feet away, huddled in a heavy coat. "Hey now, don't be like that."

John came over to her, and Molly flinched away from his hand, burying her face in the blanket. He paused, but John was a stubborn man, and she gave up resisting when he put his warm fingers under her chin. He tipped her face up, and she squinted at the light and rain, face wet and cold.

"Have you been looked at yet?" John asked patiently, fingers gentle on her aching face.

"Nooo…" She stuttered, as much from cold as nerves. She would meet his gaze for a quick second, then look away just as fast. She couldn't look at him. She had done this.

"Molly…" John sighed quietly, and she heard the frustration. But he said nothing else, just tipped her face so he could see the bruises under the harsh street light. She closed her eyes, and let John tilt her head further. His hands were kind, and she hardly felt a thing as he pressed around her eye, her nose.

"Nothing broken, but you're going to have one hell of a black eye tomorrow. Did he hit you anywhere else?" John's voice was even and calm, but she knew him well enough to hear the anger.

"No, I got away." She whispered, and he let her go. She sat back, deeper in the car, out of the rain. "Is Sherlock okay?"

Molly cringed again, thinking she had no right even be saying his name. Not after she caused all of this.

"He's fine, Molly. He's dealing with Donovan right now." He paused, and leaned down a bit so he could see her face. "You aren't to blame. You didn't make Tom use drugs, you didn't make him hit you, and you didn't make him come over here to get his ass beat. You didn't make him do any of this." John was adamant, but calm, doing his best not to show how upset he really was.

"I'm sorry I kissed Sherlock." She said, so low he bent over to hear her. She risked a look at him. He was leaning against Donovan's car, his head and shoulders glowing a horrid orange under the street lights.

Molly couldn't read his expression, his eyes in shadow. But she met them anyway, determined to apologize. She had kissed someone who was taken, and she wouldn't have appreciated it if someone had done that to her.

"I'll be honest, I was a bit bothered by it. Okay, more than a bit." John slouched down a little, leaning more, and he turned his head towards the curb. She followed his gaze, and saw Sherlock standing in the cold rain, no coat or jacket, his white shirt stained with red splotches and plastered to his chest. He was talking to Donovan, hands gesturing, hair messy and wild in the rain. "But I know exactly why you did. I kiss him for the same reasons. And I admit, a part of me is scared."

"You? But you never get scared." Molly said, in disbelief. John never got scared, ever. He was one of the bravest people she knew.

"I'm scared because of all the people in this world, you have the best chance out of all of them in taking him from me." John told her, sighing. He hunkered down in his coat, hands in his pockets.

"What…?" Molly thought she heard him wrong. Sherlock leave John? That would never happen. The universe would be burned to ashes before that happened.

"He cares about you. And you understand him, as well as I do." John chuckled, and looked over at her, catching her eye. He gave her a tiny smile, before looking back to the man they both loved. "But I'll tell you right now, Molly Hooper- that was the only kiss you get. So don't be sorry."

She just blinked at him, wondering whether or not Tom had given her a concussion along with the black eye. He looked back at her, and he held her gaze, and she couldn't look away. She saw in him a man who called her friend, and cared about her. Who loved the same man she did, with everything in him.

Molly felt a tiny crack spread from the center of her heart. Not because he had Sherlock, and she didn't, but because he was scared she might try and break his heart. That she would try and succeed, take away the man he called his soul mate. Molly hadn't been thinking about John, or Tom, or anything other than her desperate heartache when she kissed Sherlock. She hadn't even considered that anyone would think that she would try for Sherlock. She wasn't like that, she wasn't that kind of person.

"I….." Molly stopped, and thought hard. "Okay, I'm not sorry I kissed him. But I'm sorry I kissed your boyfriend, if that makes any sense."

"Kinda does." John pushed off the car, and smiled down at her. "You going to be okay?"

"No, but I'll work on it. Are… we okay?" She asked, refusing to drop her yes. She could be brave, too.

"Yeah, Molly, we're okay." He reached out, and pushed a strand of damp hair off her face, behind an ear. She smiled at him, as much as she could around her aching cheek.

"John, your freak… umm sorry… your boyfriend is fighting off some government types, think you might need to rescue someone." Sally Donovan said, walking through the rain to her car.

Molly and John both looked, to where Sherlock was arguing with two men in dark suits, a black car idling not that far away. John swore and tossed her a quick smile before he ran off, calling Sherlock's name. Molly sighed, and let Donovan shuffle her back inside the car. Donovan got in, and took them away from Baker Street, to the hospital.

Molly wasn't going for Tom, not really. She would make sure he was still alive, and if he was, she'd start packing her stuff in the morning. If he wasn't, then she wouldn't need to move. She knew that was cold of her, and harsh, considering she was willing to marry him just yesterday, but she figured you couldn't be friends with Sherlock Holmes without learning how to handle heartache.

* * *

><p>"I can 'splain, honest." Violet put her hands behind her back, and grinned at her girl. "I wasn't even sure it would work."<p>

"Mmmmm. Be thankful it was me, and not your uncle." Anthea gave her a stern look, but Violet caught the twinkle in her green eyes.

"Oh, you have nooo idea, really." Violet skipped over to Anthea, grabbing her hand and pulling her to the nearest computer station in the large room. They were the only people in the large space, everyone sent home hours ago.

"What do you think you're doing, dear? Uh no, no hacking the computers, please." Anthea groaned, her sexy schoolteacher voice on full.

"Well, it's not hacking if I'm on an authorized computer in the system, sooo….." Violet sat in one of the chairs, and spun around, pretending not to hear Anthea's quiet groans as she tapped randomly at some keys. She spun, and spun, having to stop herself after a few turns, she was getting dizzy. She grabbed the desk, and her hand landed on a stack of photos.

Being a naturally nosy person, she picked them up, flipping through the pictures. Her good mood evaporated, and she shivered, feeling the cold for the first time that night. Her hand trembled as she pulled out a picture of herself and John, walking out the front door of 221B. From the clothes she was wearing, it was taken a couple of days before. And from the angle and distance, it hadn't been the MI6 surveillance team that routinely followed Sherlock and John.

"Please explain." Violet turned the picture around, and held it up to Anthea. "This wasn't taken by Mycroft's people."

Anthea's met her gaze, chagrin and relief fighting for dominance. Violet let her new girl see her fear, and that tipped it for Anthea.

"You'd find it all out anyway." Anthea said, and she reached out for the photo. "His name is Silas Williamson, and he goes by The Vicar."

Violet dropped her hand, and stood, her good mode gone, her whole body icing over.

"Who is he after?" Violet whispered, scared to her bones, even buried in the heart of her uncle's house.

"Violet?" Anthea reached out a hand, but Violet moved back, her hand so tight on a picture it ripped.

"Who is he after?" Violet demanded. Anthea lowered her hand, and she got an intense look on her face.

"Mary Morstan."

Violet almost fell she was so relieved. Relieved and scared, terror running through her whole body. Relieved it wasn't her this time, but still scared. He was here.

"Violet, tell me what's going on." Anthea asked, finally snaring her hand, holding it firmly between her own.

"He's been watching me for years." Violet gasped out. "He sent a team after me a few months ago. He's why I didn't leave London after I helped Sherlock with Moriarty."

"Violet. Sweetheart." Anthea hugged her, and Violet didn't know she was crying until she felt Anthea's jacket get wet under her face. "You have to tell Mycroft and Sherlock. We have to tell them everything."

"We?" Violet stuttered, confused. "I'm the one hiding behind my family."

"Yes, we. Mycroft knows that Sherlock has Mary, that you and John have been visiting her. Tell him about Williamson sending that team for you. And we have to tell Mycroft about Mary's condition."

"But….." Anthea cut her off, giving her a quick kiss.

"All of you underestimate Mycroft. He may be the director of MI6, but he is first and foremost a Holmes. And Violet Hunter- _so are you._" Anthea told her, giving her shoulders a tiny shake. "And Heaven help the man who threatens Mycroft Holmes' family."

* * *

><p>Greg was sleeping, right up until he felt the bed dip as someone sat on the side. He cracked his eyes, rubbing away the sleep as he tried to figure out where Mycroft came from. The small lamp on the far side of the room was on, and it gave off enough light for him to see Mycroft's silhouette.<p>

"I didn't think you'd be sleeping already." Mycroft said quietly, looking down at his hands.

"Physical therapy wiped me out." Greg murmured, putting his hands on the mattress and slowly sitting up on the headboard. It hurt, but he could do it, and he rested in relief as the pain faded from his chest and side, the damnable gunshot wound.

"I see."

Greg waited, watching Mycroft not look at him, but stare at his immaculately manicured nails instead. Greg waited, until he couldn't stand the silence anymore.

"Mycroft." Greg reached out, his hand on the quiet man's elbow. "What's wrong?"

"I may have to start World War Three." Mycroft said, finally looking at him, one brow raised.

"Oh. Right. Busy day at the office, then." Greg wanted to ask, but figured that it was classified and he didn't qualify as need to know. Part of him didn't want to know, really. He knew who Mycroft was, on an intellectual level, but hearing the confirmation of what he did on a daily basis might be too much for him to handle.

"A very dangerous man just threatened to kill you if I didn't make Sherlock hand over Mary Morstan." Mycroft slid over, and Greg nearly swallowed his tongue as Mycroft stretched out beside him, leaning on the headboard. He was so distracted by Mycroft's warm shoulder touching his that he almost didn't process the MI6 man's words.

"Uuumm…. What? Kill me? Sherlock has Mary?" Greg was well and truly lost, half his brain devoted to everything Mycroft, the rest to trying to figure out how Sherlock was hiding Mary. And the why of it, too.

"The CIA has sent one of their top officers to find her. I believe Sherlock knows where she is, and has been hiding her for some time. I don't know why, though. It's important enough for her not to run, to stay in hostile territory, and for John and Violet to visit her regularly despite her crimes."

"Okay, that's a head scratcher for certain. Why kill me?" Greg leaned into Mycroft, as casually as he could. He was so warm, and this was the first real private time they'd had since he'd left the hospital. Greg bit his lip when Mycroft lifted his arm, and wrapped it carefully around his shoulders.

"The Vicar threatened you, everyone else I care about, if I don't help him get Mary. He will try to kill you all."

"Obviously you aren't going to let that happen." Greg dropped his head, resting it on Mycroft's shoulder. He felt a sharp but pleasant tingle run down his spine when Mycroft turned his head, and buried his face in Greg's hair.

"He will not touch you….. Any of you." Mycroft whispered in his ear.

Greg damned his injuries, and damned the pain, but he sat up anyway, turning as best he could to the man on the bed with him. He wanted to touch, to be touched, and he was tired of waiting. He had been waiting for weeks, for _years,_ an eternity. He'd been so lonely for so long.

Greg did the impossible and kissed Mycroft. Fully, deeply, hand wrapped around his neck pulling him in close kissed him. It was as if it was magic; Mycroft responded as if they had been kissing for years. A lifetime of loving each other. He knew to bury his hands in Greg's hair just behind his ears, to slide his tongue over Greg's bottom lip before slipping inside, he knew that Greg liked to tip his head to the right, and go as deeply as he could.

Each stroke was a dream, a powerful memory of kisses past, and Greg's heart was racing in his chest. Mycroft's lips over his were electrifying. The dark, lonely corners of his heart were catching fire, and he groaned quietly, not used to being happy and aroused, not in a very long time. And never like this.

He ignored the pain burning in his side, every sense caught up in Mycroft's mouth, lips, tongue, and his hands. All of him, everywhere, so warm and real and there. Mycroft was in his arms, not a dream or fantasy.

Mycroft moved without once stopping their kiss. He lifted up, on his knees, and moved over Greg, one arm braced on top of the headboard next to his head, the other buried amongst the pillows beneath them. He kept his weight off of Greg, and the kiss went wilder. He wasn't the only one thoroughly enjoying the kiss; Mycroft was eager, making tiny sounds deep in his throat, tongue sliding over Greg's in a wet dance that shook him to his bones.

Greg was shocked at how damn good Mycroft was at kissing him, but it lasted only a second. Greg slid his hands from Mycroft neck, down his chest, and gripped Mycroft's belt in both hands, fingers curling in his waistband. Mycroft broke away, panting, lips wet.

"What are you thinking?" He gasped out, and dipped his head, nibbling on Greg's neck.

"That I'm sick of being alone, and that I want you." Greg groaned, and he was pulling at Mycroft's belt, wanting desperately to feel the other man's weight on him. Mycroft went, slowly, and Greg quaked on the mattress as Mycroft knelt between his knees, still bracing himself above the injured man on his arms.

"I want you too, and you're not alone. You'll never be alone again." Mycroft kissed him, and Greg forgot everything but the man above him. He pulled back, and Greg moaned in disapproval. "But we won't be alone for much longer, and you literally got out of the hospital a few hours ago."

"Shut up and kiss me." Greg demanded. "Now."

"Yes, sir, Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Greg couldn't stop, didn't want to stop, and he dimly heard his own voice screaming in the depths of his mind, in disbelief and awe when he brazenly undid Mycroft's belt. Absolutely never in his long life had he ever thought of loving a man, touching him in lust and joy and love. But he was, and _Dear God_ did he enjoy it. Needed it, so much he felt nothing but the skin under his fingers, the mouth over his, the scent and sounds of his new lover's body.

Mycroft wasn't hesitating, he knew exactly what he was doing, and rolled his hips slightly, encouraging Greg to keep going. It was the hottest thing he'd ever felt, and he got so aroused his thoughts scattered to every corner of the universe.

Greg opened the belt, and gasped under Mycroft's hot mouth when he sucked in his stomach, and Greg's hand slid all by its self under his waistband. Mycroft still crouched above him, perfectly positioned for Greg to touch him, intimately. Greg got himself a serious handful, and he froze, startled.

Mycroft stilled, easing his kiss, licking and teasing. His hard length was throbbing in Greg's hand, and Mycroft seemed to know that Greg was at a crossroads. He had no idea what he was doing, but he wanted to keep going. He really, really wanted to keep going, but Greg had no idea where to go or what to do. And holding another man like he currently was- it was so new and surreal he started to feel nerves dig at the passion.

"We'll be having company soon." Mycroft whispered against his lips. "I love where your hand is, I really do. But if you're not ready…It's okay if you want to stop, I'll live."

Greg met his eyes, trying his best not to be embarrassed. A man of his age getting embarrassed over sex was embarrassing in itself. He saw only patience and love in Mycroft's eyes, and he sighed in relief. Greg tightened his grip just the tiniest amount, a promise to go farther when he could. Mycroft let his eyes drift shut for a heartbeat, a wicked smile on his face, before opening them again, and easing away slowly.

Greg let him go, his hand hot and tingling. Mycroft lay down next to him, hands on his stomach, looking up at the ceiling, breathing evenly. Greg breathed with him, his heart racing, and only as he managed to clear out the lust did he feel the nightmare of pain rolling in his side and chest. He gasped, arms coming up, cradling his ribs, and he groaned, biting his lips.

"Shhhh….. Hold on." Mycroft said, rolling into a sitting position, reaching for the prescriptions on the nightstand. He heard a bottle open, and Mycroft was back, pressing two pills into his hand, and a glass of water from the pitcher next to the lamp.

Greg took the pills without complaint, and handed back the glass. He curled up on his uninjured side, and did his best to survive until the pills kicked in. Mycroft swept his fingers through his hair, a favorite pastime of his now. The touch helped as much as the pills, and Greg feel asleep to Mycroft watching over him.

* * *

><p>Mycroft stood, once he was certain Greg was asleep. He pulled the covers over the policeman, and took out his mobile. He texted the security detail stationed at the house, ordering a guard to be posted outside Greg's room at all times, and another team on the whole property. He would keep his home safe, and the man who made it feel like one for the first time.<p>

Mycroft saw a text from Anthea, asking for him to join her in the bunker. Sherlock and John were on their way. He went to the door, stopping before he opened it. Mycroft closed his belt, tucked his shirt back in, and did his best to restrain his need to swagger just a little as he left the room.

* * *

><p>Sherlock swept in the front door of his brother's house, heading down the long hall to the back of the house, and the bunker hidden beneath it. John was at his side, trundled up in a heavy winter coat. Sherlock snuck a glance at John, wondering if John thought his passion in the foyer was out of character, if he would notice how off Sherlock had been.<p>

Sherlock still felt vague hints of Winter's Night in his system, sickening and delicious, wisps across the surface of his mind. He had a brief glimpse of himself in the foyer mirror, and he was thankful he hadn't been exposed to more, as his outward symptoms would be obvious.

Tom had gotten a large dose, one not tailored for him. He had taken it haphazardly, messily enough that Sherlock had been smeared with a small amount during the fight. That tiny amount was enough to encourage Sherlock's bloodlust, and he had avoided killing Tom during the fight through pure willpower. If he had been exposed to more, Tom would be dead, and Sherlock feared what could have happened to John other than some rough snogging against a wall.

"Any idea why Mycroft felt it necessary to summon us this late at night?" John asked, as they got the bunker door.

"I have my suspicions." Sherlock murmured. "Reveal nothing."

John shot him a look, which Sherlock ignored, placing his hand on the panel next to the bunker door. He wondered for a brief instant if his brother had revoked his access, but seeing as they hadn't been greeted at the door, everyone was most likely in the bunker, so his access was most likely still valid.

The panel went green, and the heavy door disengaged from the wall, opening with a noticeable shift in air pressure. With the rush of air came the sound of shouting, and John and Sherlock stood in the doorway, watching as a very mad Mycroft shouted at an equally enraged Violet. She was wearing next to nothing again, indifferent to the cold temperatures and the company she kept. She was waving a large crumpled piece of paper in her other fist, whatever it was mangled from her grip.

"No, I'm not telling you how I got in here! Don't be an idiot! You feel like explaining why you stalk your own brother?" Violet shouted at Mycroft, right up in his face, finger stabbing at his chest. "No? No answer for that one? Then don't ask stupid questions!"

Mycroft opened his mouth, Sherlock figured to shout back, but he got there first, stepping between his older brother and their niece. He didn't say anything, just swept an arm around Violet and walked her away.

"Tool!" Violet yelled over her shoulder at Mycroft, growling under her breath. "First thing he does is threaten to kick me out when he sees me in here! Never mind ignoring my questions about why he's helping a CIA trained killer, especially after he threatened his family! _But I guess I don't count, do I Mycroft?"_

She shouted that past Sherlock, but he ignored the outburst, dragging her over to John. He handed her over to his lover, who grabbed one of her hands in his, holding her next to him. Sherlock shrugged out of his coat, and draped it over his nearly naked niece, who was shivering from cold and anger. Violet pouted at him, but she accepted the coat, snuggling under the warm fabric. Her lovely amethyst eyes were snapping and crackling with nervous energy and anger, and Sherlock hid a smile. They were very much alike, he and his niece.

Sherlock turned back to Mycroft, who was struggling to maintain his own temper. His face was white, and his usual unpleasant expression was especially marked this time. Violet had gotten to him, which not many people could do.

"CIA trained killer?" Sherlock casually asked, standing next to Mycroft, ignoring his brother's malevolent attitude. He watched as Mycroft reigned himself in, and the Iceman slowly appeared. Any trace of anger was frozen out, and calm certitude returned. Mycroft cracked him a small smile, sarcasm firmly in place once again.

"Yes, the Americans grew impatient, and sent The Vicar for Mary. No point now in pretending you don't have her, Sherlock. Williamson has threatened to kill you all unless he gets her."

Sherlock showed no reaction to Mycroft's assertion concerning Mary. John moved behind him, startled. Mycroft saw the subtle tell, and smirked at his little brother.

"Sherlock…" John moved; an aborted reaching out before he remembered Sherlock's order to say nothing. Sherlock rolled his eyes at John, and figured there was no point in playing games with Mycroft. He always complained so piteously when he lost. But then again, Mycroft loved to play.

"And what would you do to her if it turned out I was hiding Mary Morstan?" Sherlock rocked back on his heels, hands in his pockets, giving his brother a tiny smile.

Mycroft mirrored him, and came close, a couple feet separating the brothers. Sherlock met his eyes, wondering just what Mycroft's intentions were. He did not know whether he spoke now to his brother, or to the spymaster.

"That would depend entirely on why you were hiding her. Why she's chosen to remain in London after recent events." Mycroft said softly, ignoring the army doctor as he moved up beside them. "I was content to maintain the status quo after things settled down. Especially as you seemed it so important to hide her from me, and so well. But Williamson's appearance has made my lack of effort in apprehending Mary an issue."

"Do explain." Sherlock said, thinking he knew, but needing John to hear as well.

"Tell me where she is, Sherlock." Mycroft replied, not dropping his eyes from Sherlock's.

Sherlock just kept smiling, refusing to break. He could do this forever. Mary was safe where she was, as long as Violet and John had taken proper precautions. And considering how important Mary was right now to John, he doubted his doctor had screwed it up. So he need not worry about her being discovered, and he knew full well that Mycroft would never let a foreign operative threaten his family and live.

Mycroft grew impatient, like he always did, his desire to get an answer overriding his control. Sherlock knew he won when Mycroft looked away, to where Anthea was glaring at them both in exasperation from the nearest computer station. Mycroft made a faint movement in his shoulders, as if he had been reprimanded by their mother for breaking a house rule.

"Very well. I theorized a few weeks ago that you, John, and Violet were hiding Miss Morstan, due to the latter two's routine disappearance, and the shaking of the surveillance teams. Twice, sometimes three times a week since the night Morstan disappeared, John and Violet would go off grid for several hours." Mycroft expounded, and he began to pace across the floor, hands in pockets, tossing Sherlock and John a look every time he made a point.

"As Violet's sexual orientation, and John's steadfast loyalty to you preclude any chance of a romantic liaison between the two of them, the reason for their disappearances must be significant, and not the obvious assumption. But significant to whom? Not to you, for if it was important to you, Sherlock, you would be the one making the trips. But it's not; it's the good doctor and Violet. So, that means it's something, or someone, important to John or Violet."

Mycroft paused, and sent a look Violet's way, before his gaze landed on John, and stayed there.

"Now, it's not Violet. Everyone or thing important to her is in this room right now. But John Watson- there's the clue to the whole puzzle. John is a remarkably loyal man, so much so he would do anything for the people he cares about. And he certainly cared about Mary, enough to propose. Not enough to stay, but enough to ask."

Mycroft ignored the nasty look John sent him, the doctor's shoulders tensing up.

"Spot on so far, Mycroft. Extra points if you get the rest right." Sherlock thoroughly enjoyed this, though he would never voice such a sentiment to his brother. Mycroft rolled his eyes at him, but kept going.

"So, John Watson's former fiancé has yet to flee the country, when she has every smart reason to do so. I would have caught her if she had attempted to leave. But instead, she goes to ground. So well hidden it would take Sherlock Holmes himself to hide her from me." Sherlock smirked at his brother, prompting another eye roll. "John disappears on a regular basis with Violet, and strangely enough, CCTV cameras in the same area of the city go into maintenance, or experience a glitch, or just plain shut down within the time frame the two of you are missing."

Sherlock heard Violet swear from somewhere behind him, but he wasn't worried. Mycroft wouldn't be explaining if he intended to harm Mary. Mycroft would have handed her over to Williamson if he did. He knew enough to find her in short order if he truly wanted to.

"My conclusion is that Sherlock has placed Mary in one of his bolt-holes, one I do not know about. John and Violet go to see her, and she remains, against all her training, for a reason I cannot fathom." Mycroft sighed loudly, sharing his exasperation with the room. "So perhaps all of you would like to tell me what exactly is going on, so I can kill the American who dared to threaten the lot of you?"

Mycroft glared at them all, Anthea and Violet included. Sherlock looked to John, and raised a brow. It would be John's choice, whether or not to share Mary's situation with Mycroft. John met his eyes, and Sherlock saw the struggle. John and Mycroft, while ever enemies, had never gotten to the point where they could be friends. Even if Mycroft went in for that sort of thing. John would have to decide if he could trust Mycroft. And Sherlock would not pressure his doctor in this, it was his choice.

"John, it's up to you." Sherlock told his doctor. "She is safe right now."

Mycroft shifted on his feet, zeroing in on John. He scented the truth, and he wanted to know if he was right or not. Sherlock sighed, ignoring his brother. Sherlock took John's hand in his, tugging his doctor to his side. He planted his nose in John's soft hair, pressing a kiss to his ear. He waited, John thinking hard about what to do.

"What are you going to do to her, Mycroft? I tell you where she is, are you going to hand her over to the CIA or are you going to leave her alone? I will tell you nothing if it places her in harm's way."

"I was ready to let her be a forgotten side note, Dr. Watson. I had more pressing matters to attend to than one scorned assassin, and out of sight, out of mind. But the Vicar is forcing my hand, as are my superiors. I can work around them all, but I need to know where she is." Mycroft met John's eyes, and Sherlock could nearly see the individual thoughts weighing behind his eyes. "If she controls her baser urges to blow something up or kill someone who annoys her, I will not harm her."

"Then why do you need to know where she is?"

"I cannot control Williamson and his people unless I have full knowledge of the situation, including her whereabouts."

"Wait just a damn minute! Don't you think you should ask Mary, John? What if she doesn't want Mycroft to know where she is? What if you scare her away?" Violet spoke up, indignant. "Or worse yet, piss her off again?"

She flounced over to them, so close to Mycroft he sighed loudly and shifted over a foot. Which was the wrong move, as she just followed him, a devious look on her face.

"I… yeah, good point." John took out his mobile, and shot them all a look before pulling away from Sherlock. "I'll be right back."

John walked away, to the far side of the room, the mobile to his ear. They all watched as John called Mary, unable to hear what he was saying at this distance, but each of them curious. Sherlock felt the tiniest bit of extraneous excitement in his heart, the last dregs of Winter's Night leaving his system. He swayed, the slightest amount, so minute a movement no one should have seen it. But he was standing next to Mycroft, who always saw too much.

"Brother?" Mycroft murmured, none of them taking their eyes off John.

"Not now, Mycroft. Later." Sherlock said, watching as John spun back around to them, a nervous look on his face.

The doctor walked back over to them, phone still to his ear. He was listening, and stopped just shy of them. He gulped, and looked Mycroft in the eyes. John brought down the mobile, and he flipped it on Speaker.

"Go ahead, Mary. He's listening." John told the woman on the open line.

There was silence, just the faint sound of a deep rumbling in the background. Sherlock knew it was the Underground vent, the sounds of the trains coming up through the walls. When she spoke, her voice was calm, cool, and all traces of Britain was wiped clean. She was not speaking as Mary, but the cold blooded assassin.

"Who did they send?" She asked, sharp, deadly.

Mycroft sighed, but answered.

"Silas Williamson, known as the…" She cut him off.

"The Vicar, yes I know." Mary paused. "I know him well."

They all looked at each other, wondering at her tone, her words. John had a look on his face that was partial dread, and part curiosity.

"Care to share what you know?" Mycroft asked, as if he were requesting tea instead of coffee.

"I might. But what prevents you from handing me over to Silas, as your betters have demanded? I hide not for myself, Mycroft. I have more than one life to protect now."

Sherlock saw the truth bloom in Mycroft as his brother made that last connection. Mary Morstan was pregnant, and Sherlock watched as his brother's gaze landed squarely on John. His doctor met Mycroft's eyes dead on, not blinking. John would do anything to protect Mary. Even against Mycroft.

Sherlock waited, patient. Mycroft must choose who he would be in the next moment; his brother, or the spymaster.

"Considering this new information, Miss Morstan, I am willing to extend an olive branch. But the Prime Minister is most adamant that I cooperate fully with the CIA, with Williamson. The Vicar threatened everyone if I did not force Sherlock to give you up. I got rather insulted, so I'm ignoring that edict."

John shifted nervously, hand clutching the mobile tightly. Mary revealing herself at this juncture was terrifying him. May didn't speak, weighing her options. Sherlock wasn't worried. Mary was a smart woman.

"We shall talk face to face, Mycroft Holmes. And if I don't like what you have to say, I'll make CAM Tower look like a fireworks party. If the CIA is here, they are watching you right now. You will not be able to get here without them following. I will not reveal where I am currently hiding. But I will come to you." She paused, and her voice went colder. "Your brother knows what I mean. Sherlock, I'll be expecting you."

The line went dead.

"What did she mean, she'll be expecting you? And how is she getting out, and getting in here, without the CIA seeing her?" John asked Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled at his love, and couldn't help the deep chuckle of appreciation that swelled up in him at Mary's sheer guts. The woman was made of steel.

"Let's go for a walk, John. Mycroft, I do hope you haven't closed off the basement."


	42. The Underground

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**WARNING: Violence.**

**Enjoy! Next chapter drops either Tuesday or Wednesday.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Forty Two<strong>

"_**The Underground"**_

"Let's go for a walk, John. Mycroft, I do hope you haven't closed off the basement." Sherlock said, grinning in unholy glee and anticipation at the scandalized look on Mycroft's face.

Mary Morstan had just issued a challenge to Sherlock Holmes, and he was feeling exceptionally daring. John sighed loudly, seeing the look on Sherlock's face, and automatically dreading whatever it was his lover planned.

Sherlock was thinking he made the right decision in telling Mary to go to Leinster Gardens. She hadn't been lazing about. She would know that space as well as he by now, and she would know that there was more than one way out of there. As there was more than one way out of Mycroft's house.

"Mycroft, is the house under surveillance?" Sherlock pulled John under his arm, turning his doctor to the computers with him. Anthea turned to the screens, and tapped some keys.

The screens lit up with the infrared views of the exterior of Mycroft's townhouse, and the rear garden. She hit another key, and the images altered, the computers searching for anomalies in the feeds. On each screen, multiple views lit up with red boxes, red outlines. Within each was an alert, a human silhouette.

"Sir, we have multiple targets identified around the house. I count six unknowns." Anthea turned to Mycroft, catching Sherlock's eye. She grimaced, and Anthea was well aware of who was watching them. If anyone left the townhouse, they would be followed.

"Williamson didn't waste time, did he?" Sherlock exclaimed, finding himself impressed and annoyed at the CIA officer's determination. "That just makes this all the more fun."

"I wouldn't count this as fun, brother mine." Mycroft scolded him.

"Of course it is." Sherlock hugged John tighter, thinking that there was one exception to Mary's edict he would be making. John Watson was not going to be out of his sight while a CIA officer was tossing threats. "Feel like taking the Underground, John?"

"Oh dear God, this isn't going to be as simple as taking the Tube, I just know it." John groaned, banging his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

* * *

><p>Violet hurried over to the computers, gently pulling Anthea's chair away from the keyboard. Anthea squeaked in protest, which she thought was adorable, but she couldn't focus on her girl, typing away furiously.<p>

"What are you doing?" Mycroft demanded, coming to her shoulder, peering at the commands she was issuing lightning fast. She had no need to answer, as the screens lit up above their heads.

Violet let her family watch her every move as she located and illuminated the ten block radius of London where Mary was hiding. Violet didn't need to explain as she pulled up the bird's eye view map of London, overlaid the street map, and then, on an adjacent screen, cycled up the live CCTV feeds of the exterior of the safe house zone.

Sherlock and John came over, her uncle staring intently at the screens, his gaze bouncing back and forth, from her to the screens. She saw him comprehend what she was doing at the same time she heard Mycroft swear softly under his breath.

"Anthea told me that you ordered her to send everything to the CIA, except the surveillance logs. Did you send the CCTV logs, the ones that told you someone was altering the feeds?" Violet turned from Mycroft to Anthea, needing verification, even though she knew the answer. Anthea nodded, not understanding at first, gazing at the maps Violet had brought up. Anthea's expression changed from confusion to horror as she caught on to the problem.

"Violet, please explain, some of us aren't genius by birth." John asked, confused.

"Mycroft had Anthea send everything but the surveillance logs. But if the CCTV logs were in the file for Mary, and she sent them to Williamson, he already knows Mary's general location. Those ten square blocks." Violet pointed up at the screens, heart pounding. "The same way Mycroft knew I was messing with them, so does Williamson know her general location."

"I've got the CIA's residence up there in the lower right hand block. See the vehicles? That's the feed from earlier this evening. Watch the SUVs as they pull away from the house." Violet told her audience. "This is like looking for Waldo, I know they disappear, one second."

Violet turned back to the computers, and began typing in more commands. She minimized the map, and enlarged the live CCTV feeds around the ten block radius. She ignored her uncle as he hovered over her shoulder, though she was dimly aware of his indignation and astonishment as she reprogrammed his computers at the same time she sent them hunting.

"Watch the screens, tell me when you see them." Violet ordered the room, not looking away from the new lines of code she was writing. Lines and lines were born, and she sent them off as soon as they were ready. Violet breathed out, her nerves tingling, and she stood up from the keyboard. Her program was running now on its own.

She heard John swearing, and Mycroft was looking at her a whole new way. She didn't know what that look meant, so she put it out of her mind.

"MI6 hunts people by facial recognition, human silhouettes and profiles. The programs can hunt for anything, really. I can send the programs to find a particular pigeon out of thousands, or a single piece of trash fluttering in the breeze by the river. As long as I have the parameters of an object, the programs will find it. Watch."

Violet gazed up, and she knew her program was successful as green boxes and outlines appeared on dozens of camera feeds. She was running the feeds from earlier in the evening, and comparing it to the live feeds of the same views. Every time the computer made a match, the live feed was sent to its own screen, and the target was held. This happened five separate times.

"Do you see? The CIA is camping the perimeter of where Mary is hiding, at the main intersections and thoroughfares. I took the dimensions of the CIA's SUVs, and sent the program after them all. Confirmed by the license plates and tags. The feeds we're watching are of the same vehicles, sitting in place since the information was shared, and waiting. They're waiting for us to lead them to Mary." Violet turned to the room, and spoke to Sherlock.

"You'll lead them right to Mary, and straight back to Mycroft, if the CIA sees any of us enter the radius. We wait this out, they will begin to search the area, section by section. Mary needs to get out of there, unseen, and soon. She's fucking trapped."

Mycroft moved in her line of sight, his eyes intent on her face. She met his eyes, as best she could past her nerves and the residual anger he always brought out in her. She wanted to like him, he wasn't all bad. Sometimes he was a total prick, but he loved his family. The ones he acknowledged, at least.

"You have experience hiding from the CIA, Violet." A statement and question all in one. "You knew immediately that Mary was vulnerable, that this would be one of their moves. One of his moves."

"I've been hiding from every spook agency since my mother died." Violet snapped, but she bit back further words when she caught Anthea's eye.

Violet sighed, tucking her hands in the pockets of Sherlock's coat. Anthea nudged her arm, and Violet grimaced. She would tell Mycroft, but they needed to get Mary out of there. She was safer than the assassin right now.

"I've been running my entire life, since I was thirteen years old. I've been on the Agency's wish list for almost as long. The Vicar has been actively after me for the last year. He sent a team for me three months ago. I got away, obviously. I wouldn't have if he had come for me himself." Violet stated as calmly as she could, dropping her head, resting her forehead in her hand. "When Anthea told me he was here, I thought he had come for me at last."

She rubbed her face, suddenly tired. So tired of running, of hiding. She just wanted to rest. She had never been caught, but she never had a place to call home because of it. Never in one place long enough to call any roof and four walls home.

"Silas Williamson has been hunting you." Mycroft murmured, and she looked up in surprise at the anger in his voice.

"He doesn't just hunt down enemies of the state or whatever it is they call people the USA wants disappeared. Williamson takes delivery orders, and goes shopping. He's a fucking bounty hunter. I'm on someone's shopping list." Violet shuddered, and she gave up the fight against the stress. Hearing the words out in the world made the whole mess even more real, so much scarier. She put her head in her hand again, too tired to face the room, and the people in it. "Somewhere out there, there's a picture of me and a price tag."

When the arm wrapped around her neck and pulled her close, she thought at first it was Anthea. But the scent of pine and the height of the hard shoulder under her face made her reevaluate who was hugging her. She choked on a sob, and cried quietly on her uncle's shoulder. She hadn't been expecting his gesture of comfort, and it felt better than she thought it would.

"You count, Violet." Mycroft whispered in her ear, echoing the words she'd shouted at him earlier. "You are one order he won't be filling."

* * *

><p>Mary strode down the narrow concrete hall, and entered the small room at the very end. It really didn't count as a room, really. It was more of an alcove, full of pipes, electrical boxes, and miscellaneous paneling. Mary went to the corner, and put a foot on a large pipe that came out from the wall, and pushed herself up.<p>

She grabbed the next pipe up, and lifted herself higher. Just above her head was a large metal panel in the wall, and she reached, stretching to hit the latch. She managed to snag it with her fingertips, and the disused latch resisted before opening with a harsh groan.

The panel creaked open a bare inch, but it was enough for the pungent stench of hot metal, wet earth, and exhaust to poor over her head and in the alcove. She climbed up higher, grasping the door to leverage herself into the opening. She straddled the edge, and looked out and down.

She had discovered this maintenance hatch the evening after her arrival, having explored the shell house thoroughly top to bottom. Whoever the previous occupant was had been using Leinster Gardens as a safe house as well, and this small door had once been used with great frequency. Mary was thirty feet over the rail lines of the Underground, and as she watched, a train bulleted past below her, the thunder of its passage echoing off the concrete walls. She was above three separate lines, in an area where they ran parallel to each other for a short stretch before the lines diverged.

23-24 Leinster Gardens was nothing but a shallow shell around the old steam vents of the Underground, and the greater portion of the space was a large rectangular hole in the ground between the actual, real houses of Leinster Gardens.

Mary leaned out, holding the wall as she looked down. There were metal rungs imbedded in the wall, running all the way down into the darkness of the great vent. She had followed it down one night, all the way to the ground, where there was a space between the wall, and the closest rail line.

Utter darkness had spread out in either direction, and she had gone no further. But there were old traces of someone disappearing into the mazelike Underground, and Mary knew that at some point, this place had seen regular travel. Which meant there was a safe path out, somewhere down there. She would not risk her health by investigating, but Mary was certain that if anyone knew the way through, Sherlock Holmes would.

Mary pulled herself back in, and swung the panel shut before dropping lightly to the floor, bending her knees to absorb the fall. She looked up, staring at the panel, wondering how long it would take before Sherlock knocked.

* * *

><p>John was startled by what Violet had revealed, though he shouldn't be. Her profession would bring her to the attention of a lot of governments, and Sherlock had told him weeks ago that there were people out there who wanted Violet. John pulled his gaze from the incongruous sight of Mycroft finally expressing affection for his niece, and started to send Mary a text.<p>

"John?" Sherlock asked, watching as John typed.

"She needs to know they have her surrounded. They could get impatient, start a grid search any minute." John said, hitting Send, telling Mary everything. John went back to watching Mycroft and Violet, leaning on Sherlock's shoulder as the young woman rested on her uncle's.

"Never thought I'd see that." John murmured, not caring that Mycroft sent him a narrow eyed glare in response. "Now you just need to work some sense into your parents."

John caught the small grimace on Sherlock's face at the mention of his parents, Violet's grandparents. Sherlock leaned down, and John was gifted with a tiny kiss before his detective pulled away.

"That may happen, it may not. They suffered most due to Sherrin." Sherlock said softly, and he tugged John away from the others, towards the door.

John felt his mobile vibrate, and he pulled it back out, checking the text.

**The Vicar will not wait long. It's not safe here anymore, I must leave. He engineered the meeting between him and Mycroft to inspire you to come for me. –MM**

**Sherlock and I will get you out. We will be there, I promise. Sherlock has a plan. –JW**

No reply for over a minute, John shifting nervously. Mary needed to wait. If she left without him or Sherlock, he may never see her again.

**You have until dawn before I leave. –MM**

Sherlock had been reading over his shoulder, and John tucked his mobile away, looking at Sherlock expectantly. Just over five hours until dawn.

"I know you have a plan, let's hear it. And I have a feeling I'm not going to like it." John told his detective. He groaned at the smug look on Sherlock's face. "Dear God."

"John, you flatter me." Sherlock dodged the gentle jab John sent his way, grinning. "And yes, I have a plan. Mycroft!"

Sherlock called out to his brother, where the elder was still standing with Violet. She had stopped crying, and was huddled in Sherlock's coat. Anthea was rubbing her arm, and Violet managed a smile for John and Sherlock.

"What? And why do you insist on shouting?" Mycroft grumbled, making his way over.

"I need torches, rope, and some explosives." Sherlock told his brother, and John threw up his hands in exasperation.

"Explosives? Christ, Sherlock, if you blow anything else up, I'll be the first to exile you to Eastern Europe!"

"Never worry, it won't be anything remotely important. And do hurry up." Sherlock made shooing motions at his brother, who just glared and pulled out his mobile. "A few pounds, please. C4 would be best."

John tugged Sherlock to him, as the elder Holmes talked to whoever you'd ask for explosives. _Mycroft would know exactly who to call to get explosives. Ahh, I love my life. _Sherlock stood expectantly in front of him, and John took his time looking him over.

Sherlock had cleaned up and changed, ridding himself of Tom's blood before leaving with Mycroft's people. John had to remind him he shouldn't traipse about in bloody wet clothing, and Sherlock had a lost look on his face before noticing the state he was in. John was glad to see that he hadn't suffered any injuries, though John was worried about his detective's ribs. Tom had landed a few blows, and John had seen Sherlock wince from one particular nasty strike to his side.

"Before we go on a rescue mission, you okay?" John asked him softly, not wanting Mycroft to hear. "He got a few hits in before you turned him to mincemeat."

Sherlock hummed a reply, and his eyes were intense, locking on John's. He never got tired of this man's eyes. They were beyond impossible, inhumanly lovely, and every glance from them made John feel alive.

John ran a hand over Sherlock's pale face, the smooth planes and gorgeous cheekbones. Sherlock came closer, and leaned into his touch, eyes drifting shut. John smiled, and did his best not to get too distracted by Sherlock's proximity. He was intoxicating, as necessary for life as air, and John sighed, happy to have a small moment in the chaos. Sherlock's heavenly eyes were hidden from him, so he went up on his toes, kissing Sherlock softly on the lips. He blinked them open, and John kissed Sherlock slowly, sweetly, holding his eyes as he did.

Sherlock moved, so gradually John didn't notice when he was enclosed in his detective's arms, chests pressed firmly together. Every kiss they shared was as perfect as the first, mixing love and passion in John's veins, stirring him, accelerating his heart. John deepened the kiss, feeling Sherlock hum in approval through their joined lips.

"Aren't they adorable?" Came the mock whisper from a few feet away. John smiled against Sherlock's lips, kissing his love for a moment more before pulling back. Violet was smirking at them, Anthea at her side, the MI6 operative with a tiny smile on her face.

Sherlock sighed loudly, as if annoyed, but he gave Violet a lightning fast wink.

"Mycroft's got one of his security people bringing what you need. What do you want me to do?" Violet asked her uncle, the expression on her face so similar to Sherlock's when he was working a case John wondered again at no one else in the world noticing that they were kin. John shook his head, amazed at the blindness people afflicted themselves with, himself included. All those years denying how much Sherlock meant to him, how much he wanted, needed him.

"Watch the CIA, report to me their movements. The ones here, and around the safe house perimeter." Sherlock told his niece, and she nodded in agreement. "We will be in contact sporadically, limited cell service as far down as we'll be going."

John banged his head on Sherlock's shoulder again, impatient to be going, but dreading it all the same. John had a pretty good idea where his night was heading, and it wasn't their warm, comfy bed back at 221B.

* * *

><p>Phillip Anderson was cold, wet, and fairly certain he was experiencing frostbite or hypothermia. Probably both. He thought about going home, but he hadn't a thing to do there but stare at his wall of theories. Even he needed to get out once in a while.<p>

Of course, his idea of going out was going to different crime scenes around the city, places where Sherlock had solved a case, or done something spectacular. The detective was always doing something spectacular, so there was quite a few places he could go and reminisce.

But there was only one place he had wanted to go this night, regardless of whether the consulting detective was home or not. From the dark windows of 221B, Anderson figured the detective and the doctor were out for the night. A thrill shot through him, thinking that Sherlock and Dr Watson were out solving a case somewhere, chasing down the bad guy, Sherlock making wild deductions that were incredibly farfetched but dead on brilliant…..

Anderson sighed, and huddled under his coat, thinking he should have stayed home, the rain was cold enough to be snow, and it was seeping through every layer he had on. He had been out all afternoon, and had gotten his fill following Dr Watson and the beautiful Holmes scion. He felt an uncomfortable tingle in his extremities when he pictured the young woman who looked so much like the detective she really ought to be his daughter. He had lost them a few times after they got the sports car, but he guessed where they were going. They always went to the same place, one of Sherlock's hiding places. Leinster Gardens, 23-24.

Anderson had followed Sherlock there his first week back from being dead. And he had gone there today after losing the pair as they zipped through London in the flashy car. Anderson had gone straight away to Leinster Gardens, determined to see if he were right, that this would be where Violet and John would go. He had been surprised earlier that day when he sat in someone's front garden, on a covered bench, hidden behind an ill tended bush of some kind; surprised because while he had only ever seen Violet and John go there, he had never seen anyone else enter or leave.

Until today.

A short woman in a long hooded black coat had exited the house, and walked to a nearby park. He hadn't needed to get up to watch her progress down the street, and for her to enter the park. He had been incredibly curious as to who she could be, as her face was hidden. She was hiding in one of Sherlock's bolt-holes, and John and Violet went there a few times a week. Anderson sat, and watched, and it wasn't until she had come back an hour later that he had recognized her. It was Mary Morstan, her face revealed as the wind pushed the hood back just enough for Anderson to see gold blonde hair, and deep blue eyes.

"Isn't it a bit cold to be hiding in the shadows?"

Anderson jumped, and would deny to his dying day that he squeaked in alarm when the voice came out from the night. Heart thumping, he turned to the alley, and saw a shadow separate from the far wall, and walk to him. He was hiding under a large piece of machinery that was still sitting in the vacant lot across from 221B. The building that used to stand here had been destroyed by one of the explosions that had rocked London the month before.

The shadow approached him, sleek and graceful, soundless on the wet pavement. He refused to show how scared he was, pretending he wasn't shaking in his boots. The harsh street light washed over the head of the shadow, and he blinked in confusion, and some small awe.

The woman was beautiful, dark eyes in a perfect face, a sweet, shy smile on her lips. Her hair was brown, and red highlights danced under the glaring street light. She was in a long black coat, hooded, and very similar to what he had seen Mary Morstan in earlier.

"I… I don't mind. It's nothing. Aren't you cold?" Anderson stammered, floored by her mere presence. She looked very familiar, as if he had seen her somewhere before.

"No, not really. Waiting on Sherlock and John to get home?" She asked, moving to hide under the giant machine with him, out of the rain. She was very close, and he did his best to stand up straight, even though that let some more damp, cold air seep in through his clothes.

"Oh! I'm not…. You don't think I'm…." He snapped his mouth shut as she sent him an amused look. She was so pretty, where had he seen her…..

"Of course you are! I'm waiting as well. Sherlock asked me to drop by, I've got some information for him. Are you one of his sources too?" She whispered, a glint in her eyes. She was smiling at him, as if she and he knew a delicious secret. He found himself smiling in return, and pulled his shoulders back, chest forward.

"Umm…..Yeah. That's why I'm here. Man relies on me for a lot." She smiled at him again, and shuffled a tiny bit closer. She even smelled pretty. Like top shelf whiskey and mint.

"Does he now? I can see that." She sighed, soft, and gazed wistfully at the dark windows of 221B. She cast him a quick sideways glance, and he bit back a grin as she blushed prettily when he caught her looking. "You look really familiar, have we met before?"

"I don't know…." He gasped as she stared at him, her eyes twinkling in the street lights. "You were at the hospital the night Sherlock got hurt last month!"

"Oh, that's it! You were coming in just as I was leaving! It's Phillip, right? He's mentioned you to me a few times." She giggled, and came a half step closer to him. "That was a scary night, wasn't it? Poor thing hardly recognized me, I had to come back the next week to give him my information. Were you there for that too?"

"I was…. Ummmmm… I was asked to sit in with him, trusted friend and all. Man didn't want to be alone." Anderson lifted his chin, encouraged as she gazed at him in awe. She was so very pretty, and sweet. Anderson found himself very pleased he'd gotten out of his house on this cold night. She was enough to warm any man's bones. And Sherlock had told this lovely creature about him!

"He's so nice, and so smart. I never get invited over, just for company. Lucky you." She looked up and down the street, and leaned in to whisper to him. "I shouldn't tell you this, but seeing as you're one of us and all, I think I can share."

He leaned in, their heads nearly touching. He did his best not to get distracted by the sweep of her perfect eyelashes, her rosy lips, and her adorable nose. He watched her pink lips as she spoke, forcing himself to pay attention to her words.

"The CIA is watching the flat." He jumped nervously, and he was about to start looking when she put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. "No! Don't look like that. Just beyond my shoulder, far building at the main street, balcony. Go slow."

He very carefully looked to the spot she described, and he gasped as he made out the faintest hint of a grey silhouette of a man, hidden in the hazy shadows. He was far enough away Anderson couldn't make out more than his outline. If she hadn't pointed him out, Anderson would never have known the man was there.

"What is the CIA doing here, watching Sherlock?" He asked urgently, keeping his voice low. She still had her hand on his shoulder, and he found himself thankful for her firm grip. This night had gone from boring and dull to flat out exciting. A good portion of his anatomy was utterly captivated by her touch.

"I came here to warn Sherlock. It's about his current case. The CIA are after something Sherlock is hiding. I can't tell you more than that, I don't want to put you in danger." She glanced up and down the street, and he wanted to groan when she bit her lip, pearly white teeth flashing in the dark.

"Sherlock is hiding something from the CIA?" He asked, thinking as hard as he could with this woman and her distracting beauty. Sherlock wasn't hiding something, he would have noticed. But John and Violet were hiding someone…..

"Ah! Don't worry, I know exactly what you're talking about, never fear." Anderson said proudly, grinning. He was having trouble absorbing his luck. The whole miserable day was well worth it to catch this beauty's attention.

"You do? No! I thought only a few of us knew! You must be a close friend indeed if he trusted you with this secret." She sent him a doubtful look, and he did his best to look like he was certain.

"Sure I am! He's hiding someone, not something."

"You do know!" She laughed in delight, and reached out to poke him lightly in his side. "But you could be trying to charm this secret out of me, you'll have to prove it now."

"Prove it?" He gulped, wondering what she meant. She giggled, and moved right up next to him, and whispered in his ear. Her warm, sweet breath raced across his cheek, and he wanted to purr, his insides melting.

"We say the name at the same time, count of three." He couldn't nod fast enough, anything to keep her next to him.

"One…. Two….. Three…" They counted together.

"Mary….." He gasped out, jumping as her sweet lips curved in to a perfect bow of a smile.

"Morstan!" She said at the same time, and she clapped her hands together in delight. "You do know! Well, then I guess I can tell you the rest. They're searching for a safe house, where she may be."

"You mean Leinster Gardens? Saw her there today myself, in the flesh." He asked, preening as she gaped at him in adorable awe. She was very close to him, arm brushing his. "She was fine. They haven't found her yet."

"And with your help, Phillip, they won't." Her voice changed, went cool and smooth, the girlish overtones fading away like smoke in a high wind. He met her eyes, and choked as he saw them change, become less lovely, and wilder. Dangerous. She was deadly.

He fell from the blow, as it crashed into his temple. He had no time to be alarmed, unconscious before he hit the frozen ground.

* * *

><p>Jaime stepped away from the unconscious man, shaking out her hands, anything to get the feel of idiot off of them. She looked at the dark windows of Holmes' flat, and her eyes tracked down the street to the CIA officer, thinking he was so smart hiding in plain sight. He was dressed right but he hadn't picked his placement well at all. Sure, he had a full view of the street in front of 221B, but anyone could see him if they thought to use their eyes. But not many people used their eyes….<p>

Jaime reached under her long coat, and knelt to one knee on the cold gravel of the empty lot. The shadow under the wrecker was deep, and covered her completely. She pulled up her rifle, bringing it to her shoulder, eye to the scope. He was at the far end of Baker Street, over a hundred yards away. And perfectly vulnerable.

She saw him through the scope, clear as day, and took her shot as the crosshairs settled over his heart. She absorbed the recoil easily, not bothering to watch the now dead spy fall from the balcony to the street below. Jaime stood, and let the rifle fall back under her coat, unseen to the casual observer. The shot would draw attention, and she had to leave.

There were plenty more CIA to kill, more men to beguile and destroy. And a very vulnerable woman to save. Mary didn't know it yet, but Jaime Moriarty was on her way. Mary was caught in a power struggle between two nations, and she would suffer for it. She had been missing the final piece to Mary's location, and finding Sherlock's family stalker outside his flat had been the solution to her problem. So easy to manipulate, men. Easily dispatched, too.

She considered killing him, as he lay at her feet. But his death wouldn't be swept under the rug as the CIA officer's death would be. There would be attention brought to bear on Anderson's death. So this one night, he would live.

She walked away from the fool, and let the shadows of the cold winter night swallow her back up.

* * *

><p>Sherlock waited impatiently as Mycroft's security people moved the boxes away from the old coal cellar door. This house had been retrofitted so many times over the decades that there were places in the basement level that weren't on any blueprints. The bunker took up most of the sub levels of the townhouse, but out on the street side of the basement level was a room untouched by time and construction.<p>

Sherlock accepted to coil of black rope from one of the guards, throwing its weight over a shoulder and across his chest. He may need it, he may not. It depended on how much the Underground and the sewers had changed since he left two years ago.

Sherlock motioned the small rucksack to John, the one containing the explosives, and the spare torches. John groaned and rolled his eyes, but took it readily enough, throwing it over his back without hesitation. Brave man, his doctor. Most men would refuse to handle explosives. But it was C4, which was incredibly stable, and wouldn't go off if accidentally dropped or bumped into.

"Is this wise, brother?" Mycroft asked, standing at his shoulder, Violet behind him in the hall. She was wearing Mycroft's suit jacket, having given Sherlock back his coat. He could smell her shampoo on the collar, lilac and pears. In fact, it was the same scent Anthea was wearing.

"Can you come up with a better way of getting us out of this house unseen, without the CIA either grabbing us or tracking us to Mary? And she's right, by the way. The Vicar will start his search anytime now if he thinks we won't leave."

"No… it's just ….. Do be careful." Mycroft muttered, and Sherlock couldn't help the small amount of pleased surprise he felt. Mycroft rarely voiced concern.

"Sherlock will be careful, or he'll have me to answer too." John assured Mycroft, flicking his torch on and off in the dark room.

The coal door was unlocked, and the hinges groaned in complaint as it was peeled away from the wall. Dust and debris fell from the doorway, cobwebs and other things hanging from the ceiling of the passageway. It was a few inches taller than Sherlock, and wide enough at this point for them to walk side by side. John shined his light down the long tunnel, the beam fading out after ten yards or so, darkness overwhelming the torch.

"I know the way, Mycroft. I'll text when I can get a signal. Have Violet send me updates, let me know if they're moving in on Mary. If they are, I'll have to do this the fast way, and forgo stealth." Sherlock clapped Mycroft hard on the shoulder, rocking the taller man on his feet. His brother rolled his eyes, and went to wait with Violet.

"Sherlock- my every move is being watched by the Prime Minister. I will not be able to intercede if the CIA reaches Mary, or you get caught helping her. Not openly, at least. Do us all a favor, and don't get caught." Mycroft said, and Sherlock nodded.

"Come, my dear doctor. Adventure awaits, and there is a damsel to be saved." Sherlock didn't hesitate, walking through the door, the deep shadows of the world beneath London swallowing him in seconds.

John didn't wait either, plunging into the shadows behind his detective. Mycroft and Violet were left behind, staring anxiously into the abyss that consumed the people they loved most.

* * *

><p><strong>Mary, Sherlock and John just left now. Wait for them. –VH<strong>

Mary stared at the text, pausing only a moment before resuming her packing. She would take nothing beyond her box of aliases, her weapons, and a change of clothing. Everything else was going in the rubbish bin, accelerant waiting nearby. She would burn her presence away, the concrete walls insurance enough to prevent the fire from spreading to the neighbors.

The detective and the doctor had five hours until dawn. If they weren't here, she would have to leave. Silas was too close to her, she would not wait to die. She hadn't exaggerated, she did indeed know Silas Williamson well. So well in fact, that it had been Mary who gave him the codename The Vicar.

* * *

><p><strong>A Lifetime Ago… Somewhere in Virginia, USA, "The Farm"<strong>

"**A**, don't push him." Whispered the blonde named **B** to her left, both girls sweating profusely, muscles aching and ready to collapse to the mat.

"He's a dick- beating us down because we're girls. Invading the Holy Church of Male Superiority. We wouldn't be here if they didn't need us." **A** whispered back furiously, wiping her bangs out of her eyes, watching as their instructor knocked another girl to the mats, kicking her when she tried to get up. "It's his turn."

She sprang from her prone position on the floor, attacking from his blind spot, his attention locked on the seventeen year girl crying at his feet. **A **moved silently, and fast, jumping at his shoulders. She wrapped her arms around his neck, but let her legs swing out, her momentum spinning them both over the poor girl huddled on the floor, spilling them to the mats. She let go, and rolled away, as he sprang to his feet, indignant rage spilling off him in waves. She crouched, fingertips resting lightly on the mats, and met his eyes squarely.

**A **pulled her lips back in a rabid grin, and she leapt forward as he did, going low as he went high, his fist sailing above her head. She brought both hands up as he struggled to stop his forward momentum, and pushed, throwing him over her shoulder. She kept moving, jumping over the girl crippled by fear in the center of the training floor.

"Get up! Fight back or move!" **A **shouted, flipping out of the way of her instructor's bulldozer charge, evading him easily, his anger making him predictable and slow. She had faced worse from her drunken, asshole of a father, and this pathetic excuse for a man was nothing compared to seventeen years of abuse.

**A **laughed at the instructor as he charged her again, and her open handed slap was shockingly loud in the training room, bouncing off the concrete walls. She led him on a merry dance across the mats, provoking him into uselessness, his rage making him forget every inch of his training. She used that, dodging every blow he sent her way, laughing as she darted in and spanked him, or slapped his face again and again. He would grab her shoulders, but she would slip out from under him, evade his sweaty grip on her wrists, his moves awkward and unbalanced.

It wasn't until she laid him low with a double fisted blow to the groin that she pulled back, panting in exhaustion. The large room was quiet, and her breathing was the only noise she could hear in the space. That, and the clapping. She looked past the other trainees who had been watching in disbelief and fear as she wiped the floor with their dick of an instructor. She saw the dark haired man in the fine grey suit who had been silently watching them all the past few weeks as they began their training. He was applauding, slow enough to rankle her nerves, unsure if he was mad or not.

"Well done." He said, walking onto the mats, sniffing in disdain at the groaning pile of man sweating his life away at her feet. "What was it you called this place? The Holy Church of Male Superiority? Inventive, and so clearly not true anymore. Not for him, at least."

She swallowed nervously, afraid he would take her to task for insulting this bastion of maleness called the CIA. She felt it, but wouldn't show it. "I did. And who are you, the fucking vicar?"

She ignored the shocked faces of her fellow trainees, the winces on the faces of the other instructors as she met the dark-haired man's eyes squarely. She would not show fear, it only made people hurt you more. She had nothing left to lose. Her life was gone, her future stolen, and her name erased from existence. She would not bow down.

"The Vicar." He laughed, his eyes twinkling in mirth and something so cold she shivered. "I like that. And yes, if this was a church, I would be that indeed. Congratulations, **A**, you've passed orientation with flying colors."

"What?" She gasped, not understanding. She wasn't going to be punished?

"Come with me." He motioned for her to follow him from the room, not looking to see if she came as directed. "It's time for your real training to start."

She took what would be her last look at her fellow classmates, never seeing those girls again. They had washed out, and from the hundred girls picked from across the country, only a small percentage had passed. She was the best of the lot, something she never counted on. And she never stopped being the best.

The girl born Amelia followed Silas Williamson, and found her purpose in this life.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock, you sure about this?" John was whispering, which Sherlock thought was funny, as they were alone as two people could be in the chaotic maze of tunnels and sewers beneath the city.<p>

"Sure." Sherlock replied, using his light sporadically as he led the way in the darkness.

"I'm only asking because you paused back there like you weren't sure." John was practically riding his shoulders he was so close in the dark.

"Merely consulting my maps, my dear doctor." Sherlock told his lover, his direction fixed in the lightless maze. "I know where I'm going, trust me."

"Oh, I trust you, but I also know you well enough that you'll not admit to being lost until it's too late." John grumbled. Sherlock didn't take that personally, John wasn't wrong.

"Would you like to lead the way?" Sherlock asked him, knowing John couldn't see his grin in the dark.

"Ummm….. No thank you, keep on going please."

"Hmmm." Sherlock paused, hearing the sound of rushing water ahead, the stench of sewer.

They were making good time. They had been walking for the better part of an hour, and were near the river. They had two choices now: Either go to the surface and cross one of the bridges and risk being seen, or take the catacombs and railways under the river to the other side.

Sherlock turned on his torch, checking the wall in front of him for the access door he remembered. He saw it a few yards ahead, pleased his internal map was on target. He knew their exact location, and went for the door. John helped him turn the rusted handle, the metal screeching and echoing off the stone walls. They pulled it wide, and John stepped through the open space, swearing. They were above a sewage runoff, several feet above rushing brown water as it ran to the river.

Sherlock pulled out his mobile, and saw he had a signal for the first time since they entered the old coal tunnel. Violet had sent a message, the CIA were holding, and Mary was still waiting. He sent her a reply, telling her that he and John would be at Leinster Gardens within the next two hours.

"We are yards from the Thames, John. We can follow the slope here down to the bank, follow the shore to the nearest bridge, cross, and go underground again, or…"

"We're right outside the safe house radius, aren't we? We cross any of the bridges here, won't they see us?" John asked, nearly shouting over the roar from the passing water. "The CIA?"

"They just might." Sherlock agreed, and he pointed his torch down the other way, from the direction the sewer water was coming from.

"What's the option you aren't mentioning?"

"The catacombs, John. You didn't develop claustrophobia while I was away, did you? That would be inconvenient." Sherlock tugged on John's arm, leaving the door open. They would be coming back this way, hopefully with a pregnant former CIA assassin.

"No… Christ." John followed him, as Sherlock led the way, following the water deeper under London, away from the surface, careful and cautious on the narrow stone ledge.

"Have you done this before? Other than last time, when we found the bomb?" John asked him, the walls making his voice loud in the darkness.

"Rescued someone from the CIA or gone gallivanting through the catacombs?"

"Oh, well, both."

"Yes I have." Sherlock answered, laughing under his breath when John grabbed his arm when a very large rodent ran over their shoes. "Been a few years since the catacombs, not so long for the CIA."

John said nothing for a few minutes, and Sherlock led the way down a narrow passage, the walls changing from concrete and cement to something older, more ancient. Stone blocks and cobblestone floors were covered in slime, cobwebs, and water lines high on the walls. The smell was not that bad, full of moldy undertones and damp. The air was a constant temperature, cold, but not changing much. It was the damp that was the most unpleasant aspect, it sank in through their layers, and settled in their bones.

Sherlock watched as John rubbed at his left shoulder, over the old bullet wound he'd gotten years before while in the service. The cold damp air was most likely aggravating the old injury.

"Tell me a story, Sherlock." John asked suddenly, as the sound of the water faded away. Sherlock dropped down, under an old pipe, his coat dragging in the muck on the floor.

"Tell you a story?"

"Yeah, you said you'd rescued someone from the CIA, tell me all about it." John said, pausing to zip his coat up higher, his breath fogging in the cold.

Sherlock watched John shiver, and sighed. For a man so good at taking care of others, he could be remarkably blind when it came to himself. Sherlock put his torch in his pocket, the light shining up to the ceiling, and reached up for his scarf. He was fine, he hardly felt the cold. But John was still accustomed to living comfortably while he was gone, and wasn't used to long, cold, lonely nights.

Sherlock roped his deep blue scarf around John's neck, making a loose hoop like he wore it, and tucked the ends in his coat. John got a faint pink tint to his cheeks, and Sherlock leaned down, catching his doctor's cold lips with his. He held his love, kissing him in the deep dark of the oldest parts of their city, content and happy, no matter where they may be.

"So, the rescue? Well, that's an interesting story." Sherlock said as he pulled slowly away, John's lips clinging to his. "And you know the person I saved, too."

"What really? Who?" John followed behind him as Sherlock took off again, going down a stone spiral staircase that was older than dirt.

"Well, before I tell you, I should probably inform you that I know you lied about Irene Adler going to America." Sherlock stopped when he heard John stumble, and he shined his light towards his lover. John's face was an odd mixture of embarrassment, consternation, and weirdly enough, fear.

"Oh…. Saw through that one, huh?" John gasped out, rubbing his knee. From the wet spot he must have hit the stone floor. But he stood up just fine, and Sherlock met his gaze calmly. "She's dead, mate. Got beheaded by terrorists in Karachi."

"Did she now?" Sherlock asked, resuming his journey downwards.

"Well, Mycroft said…. No! Don't tell me you…. Sherlock!" John called out to him as he rounded a corner, pausing to consult his internal map. He waited for John to catch up, his doctor breathing faster than he should be for such a short sprint.

"Don't tell me you saved her." John said, shining his light in Sherlock's face. "How did you? Never mind, it'll make my head hurt hearing how you pulled that one off."

John was alternating between looking mad, and looking scared of something. Sherlock was at a loss, and he stared hard at his doctor, trying to figure it out. His lips were tight, and there was tension in his shoulders.

"Why are you upset I know you lied about Irene? And I was going to tell you a story, but if you're going to sulk at being caught out, I guess I won't." Sherlock shook his head in exasperation, and went to turn away.

"No, wait. Sherlock, stop." John put a hand on his arm, and tugged him to a halt. "I'm sorry, go ahead and tell me."

"Okay." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, trying to figure his doctor's odd behavior out. He shrugged, and continued downwards, John on his heels.

"Well, I sent her into hiding after I saved her from the terror cell in Karachi. Faked her death- I happen to be very good at that- and shucked her off to Greece."

"Greece? Of course; sandy beaches, warm sun, nude beaches. Yeah, I see her being happy there." John muttered, and Sherlock sighed at the interruption. "Sorry, keep going."

"As I said, Greece. Got her in a convent there, and said my goodbyes. Came back here with no one the wiser." Sherlock said, taking the older tunnel to his right, which would take them directly under the Thames. Hopefully there were no collapses ahead, he didn't fancy turning around.

"A convent?" The incredulity in John's voice was hilarious, and Sherlock grinned, laughing at the memory of Irene's face as he left her in the courtyard of the convent.

"Yes, a convent. She was most…. Upset with me."

"Yeah, I imagine she would be. So how'd you save her from the CIA?"

"She decided retirement wasn't for her, which I can sympathize with, and got herself in deep with a man who was one of their assets. She being who she is, she then learned something that they didn't want her to. That was about a year ago, now. I was in Paris at the time, tracking down smugglers, and got her message almost too late to save her."

"What happened?" Sherlock turned to help John, illuminating a rather large hole in the floor, one that echoed beneath them. He cast the torchlight down the long tunnel, but saw no more voids.

"I dropped what I was doing, much to Mycroft's disgust, and made it to Athens just in time to see Irene get kidnapped off the street by the CIA, posing as local police." Sherlock grabbed John's free hand, and hugged the wall as they skirted the void in the tunnel. Sherlock kept walking, figuring they were at the halfway point of the river tunnel.

"I then tracked them to the harbor, and had to pretend to be a fisherman to get close enough to the ship she was being held on. I managed to sneak aboard, take out a few CIA, nicely though, I didn't fancy killing them, and stole a boat. I got her out of Greece, and took her to Turkey. She's in a castle there, living the dream, as she called it."

"Huh." John muttered, his torch lighting up a large puddle of water ahead, as the tunnel dipped downwards more. They were just under the deepest part of the river, and the most dangerous.

"What?" Sherlock asked, hearing the odd tone in John's voice. Like he was trying not to talk but couldn't help himself.

"That sounds kind of…. Ya know…. Romantic." John told him, and Sherlock stopped in disbelief. John sounded really upset.

Sherlock spun around to John, angling his torch so he could clearly see his doctor's face without blinding him. John was doing his best to look casual and relaxed, but the tension in his shoulders, and the way he kept biting his lip belied his efforts. Sherlock, while never that good with the subtleties of human emotions, knew John well enough to finally figure his doctor out.

"Dear Lord, are you_ jealous?"_ Sherlock asked, wondering what he'd said in his entire recounting to warrant jealousy from John.

"I…. no…." Sherlock raised his brows in disbelief, and John threw his hands up in surrender, shrugging. "Fine, yes, I'm jealous."

"Of what?" Sherlock asked his lover, unsure of how to proceed. "I never slept with her, as you well know."

"Do you love her?" John asked, miserable.

"What?" He was really lost now.

"Do you love Irene Adler? I thought you must have, I believed you did when she broke your heart with the whole camera-phone mess."

"Love The Woman?" Sherlock asked, just to be sure.

"Yes, dammit!" John shouted, slapping a hand over his mouth as his words echoed loudly in the long, narrow tunnel. "You did travel across Europe to save her life twice."

Sherlock had no idea what to say. John was jealous of Irene Adler, one of the coldest and most calculating women Sherlock ever met. She was arrogant, manipulative, and fiercely intelligent. She played the game as well as he, and she had lost. Fallen for him completely, given up the upper hand to her heart. And he had wanted her, he knew he had. She was the only one other than John to stir his body past being transport, past an inconvenience of necessity. But he had never taken her up on her offer of 'dinner', not wanting to take that last step and be with another human so intimately. Not until John. His doctor was the only one he had ever been intimate with, and he wanted no one else, ever.

John got an indignant look on his face, as Sherlock took the time to ponder John's question. Did he love her? He knew he loved Molly, but Sherlock felt John didn't mean that kind of love. John meant the _in love_ kind of love. Like he loved John.

Sherlock leaned back against the wall, and tugged out his mobile. No signal, and it was still hours yet to dawn. He'd risk the wait to soothe his doctor. John was the most important part of his life, the world could burn for he cared as long as it meant John was happy. He put the phone away, and crossed his arms, content to take his time and answer as best he could, right up until he saw John's face. John was gaping at him, shocked he had to think about it.

"I think I might have, at one point. Or I could have been close." Sherlock blurted out suddenly, worried he hadn't responded fast enough, making John jump. "Is that bad?"

Sherlock felt a quiet pain creep into his chest at the confounded look on John's face, and he lowered his light, inching away.

John was aghast, but snapped himself out of it when Sherlock made to walk away, the look on his doctor's face actually making his chest hurt. Sherlock was in an impossible place, a place where telling John the truth was actually causing him pain. Sherlock tried to shrug him off, pulling his arm away when John reached out for him.

"I don't understand, John. Here I am, slogging through the muck and grime of the oldest sections of this rat infested tunnel system to go save your former fiancée, and you get upset that I kept a woman from getting her head chopped off, and then save her again when she gets kidnapped for torture?" Sherlock turned on John, making the shorter man step back a foot in shock. "You go see Mary twice a week for over a month, and I never complain. You spend nearly as much time with Violet and Mary as me, and I never said a word. She's pregnant with your child! She has a greater claim on you than I will ever have!"

Sherlock spun away, kicking at a loose stone that had fallen from the ceiling God knows how long ago, sending it rocketing down the tunnel, splashing into the pool several yards away. He turned back to John, too upset to see that John had gone pale, guilt making him swallow uncomfortably as Sherlock got even more animated.

"And I've done all I could to keep her safe because I love you! And yet I mention a woman I haven't seen in over a year, who did more harm to me than good, and you sulk and pout and snap at me? I had a mild infatuation with her, nothing compared to what I feel for you."

Sherlock brought his light up, and flicked it off, hiding in the shadows. He whispered in the darkness, unsure of where he was with John. He knew where they were physically, but this was a new place for him, his heart hurt and John had done it to him.

"If anyone in this relationship has cause to be jealous, shouldn't it be me?"

"Sherl, love, I'm sorry. I'm an idiot." John pleaded, certain he did damage to Sherlock's fragile heart. His detective gave his trust and love so rarely, and here he was getting upset about a woman worlds away, whom Sherlock thought he _might _have loved. Might, not a yes, and not a serious yes, either.

"You're right, I'm sorry. I really am. I appreciate you helping Mary, helping me with her." John tried reaching out to Sherlock again, slowly, as if he were afraid the detective might bolt. "I keep going to you for help all the time with her, keeping her safe and out of danger, and I never thought about how me doing so might make you feel. I'm sorry."

Sherlock looked down at the floor, the lights bouncing off the water, the slick stones. John held a hand outstretched to him, as if waiting for him to reach out and take it. Sherlock flinched, thinking he should have chosen a better story to tell than The Woman. John saw his flinch, and Sherlock looked up as John groaned in despair.

John was standing in front of him one moment, the next in his arms, face buried under his chin against his neck. The place John always snuggled, and Sherlock lifted his arms, holding him back.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes. Forgive me for being an idiot?" John whispered, squeezing him tightly, nose cold against his neck. "Please?"

Sherlock sighed loudly, and let go of his frustration and confusion. John was his, his doctor, his lover. He had him in his arms, and John loved him. He knew that, he truly did.

"I forgave you for being an idiot years ago." Sherlock whispered, and he smiled when John laughed. "I love you, so yes, I forgive you. I'm sorry I got mad."

Sherlock held John for a moment more, before his internal clock nudged at him, telling him they had wasted enough time confessing foolish jealousies. Sherlock lifted a hand, and with a gloved finger, tipped John's face up to his. He kissed his lover in the deep dark, closing his eyes, and thinking of nothing but the man he loved so much. John sighed in his mouth, arms around his neck, and Sherlock felt a flicker of heat deep in his core when John's tongue licked across his lower lip before sweeping deeply in his mouth.

Sherlock pulled back, and flicked his torch back on. John gave him that sweet smile that was only for him, and let him go.

"C'mon, we're almost to the other side." Sherlock grabbed John's hand, and held it as he led the way down the ancient tunnel.

* * *

><p>Peter scurried down the alleyway, nervously checking over his shoulder every few steps. He slipped in his haste, fetching up against the hard brick wall, scraping his hands.<p>

Peter pushed off from the wall, careening on the icy cobblestones before gathering what was left of his balance and running the last distance to the door at the end of the alley. He raised a shaking fist, and did his best to rap out the code correctly. The shakes were settling in hard, and he was losing feeling in his fingers and toes. He didn't mind the cold; it helped to keep the pain levels down.

Withdrawal was chewing on him, like Hannibal with a raw bone. He'd run out of that baneful blessing called Winter's Night while out hunting down the Master's information. Usually it lasted longer than the few hours he'd had, but this last batch was off. The entire process was off.

The door opened, and he spilled through it, not responding to the guard's shouts, running past the front room with its armed occupants, choking on each ragged breath. He pushed past the heavy plastic curtain at the door to the lab, and startled the mixers at the nearest table. The masked and aproned mixers fell back, clucking like chickens, as he grabbed the nearest test tube and stuck his fingers in the iridescent gel.

He sucked the gel off his fingers, one at a time, making sure he missed nothing. The drug hit him fast, and hard. The pain fell away, his muscles relaxed, and everything in the room developed a halo of foggy light. Peter sobbed in relief, hand falling away from his mouth, jaw slack, the euphoric and nearly erotic warmth spreading through every layer of his body as his system was flooded by the hallucinogen.

"PETER!" It was a yell of utter disgust, echoing through the lab, bouncing off the inside of his skull. Peter blinked, the fresh high cushioning the rabid terror he should be feeling at hearing the Master Chemist screaming his name.

Woodley burst in the lab, and every occupant froze, staring down at the floor, but for Peter, who smiled beatifically at his master, swaying on his feet as if he heard music. Woodley stalked down the length of the lab, white light reflecting off his head, eyes glittering, and teeth shining. Peter grinned at his boss, and even managed a weak wave at Hannibal when the Rottweiler growled at him from beside his master.

"What are you doing, you stupid git?" Woodley growled, and Hannibal lowered his head, ears back, lip curling. Peter giggled, thinking the dog might actually be cute if it wasn't so fucking mean. Peter barely felt the fist that clipped his head, and he fell in slow motion to the floor, one hand still clutching the test tube, landing on his ass and giggling.

"Fucking junkie." Woodley reached out, and plucked the test tube from his weak grasp. "You were supposed to come see me the second you got back, not raid our supply."

"Sorry, Master. So sorry." Peter couldn't stop giggling, and he made kissy noises at Hannibal, ignoring the fact the dog was looking at him like he was a side a beef that fell on the floor.

"For fuck's sake." Woodley reached down, and grabbed Peter by his coat collar, dragging him across the concrete floor of the lab. Woodley pulled him across the floor to the decontaminant station, and threw him under the shower head.

Peter just laughed as the ice cold water rained down over him, soaking him through, and doing little to clear his head. Woodley turned the knob, and the water went to blistering hot in seconds, making Peter scream and drag himself out from under the spray.

"Now tell me what he said." Woodley demanded, backing away from the dripping mess of a man sniveling at his feet.

"Master… The Vicar… says he is busy." Peter gasped out, water dripping in his eyes, the drops on the floor shining impossibly bright. Even the dirty floor was glowing, and he closed his eyes as the world spun, his equilibrium shot to hell. He was loving every second.

"Busy? He's busy? I pay the man three million pounds to fetch me the girl, three months ago I might add, and the second he's on the same bloody island as her, he's 'busy'?" Woodley shouted, and threw the test tube of Winter's Night across the room, the gel sloshing out, raining over the room. The tube smashed and shattered, shards spinning on the floor. Peter watched its flight, mourning the waste of all that delightful poison.

"Fuck him being busy! Get your ass up." Woodley drew back his foot to kick at him, and Peter scrambled to his feet, dripping and shaking. "You will go back over there, and tell him I don't pay people to sit on their asses and spend my fucking money!"

Peter swallowed, the initial high fading, pulling back from his brain. He was capable enough of realizing if he went back to the CIA spymaster's house, he wouldn't be alive to report back to Woodley.

"He's after his own target, master." Peter stammered, hiding his head under his hands, expecting a blow to fall. "He said he would drop by after he had his target."

When no blow came, Peter peeked through his fingers. Woodley was petting Hannibal, the dog licking his chops, eyeing Peter. He avoided looking at the dog, and saw Woodley wasn't paying attention to him anymore. He was thinking, brow furrowed, and his eyes distant.

"Fine. I'll wait." Woodley snapped, skewering Peter where he stood with his sharp eyes. "We'll move ahead with our backup plan. Send the men out day after tomorrow. I want that formula."

"Yes, master." Peter whispered, glad of the reprieve. Woodley walked away, Hannibal's claws clicking on the concrete floor. They left the lab, and Peter fell back down, too fucked up to try standing anymore. He reached out a finger, and touched a tiny drop of Winter's Night on the floor, bringing his finger to his lips. Even that tiny drop was heaven, and he hummed happily to himself as the high took him deeper.

* * *

><p>"I'm taking the world's longest shower when we get home." John muttered, slogging through the rank sewage on the tunnel floor.<p>

"It's not that bad. We could be in Paris, the catacombs there have corpses." Sherlock rejoined, dodging a section of low hanging ceiling that was partially collapsed.

"I'm thinking I've already seen one or two of those." John said, determined not to look down at whatever was moving past his feet in the filthy water. It was freezing cold, and he'd lost feeling in his toes.

"We're almost out, we'll be coming up on the rail lines in about a hundred yards." Sherlock told him, his deep voice bouncing off the hard walls of the tunnels, echoing deeper into the abyss.

They had been down in the vast labyrinth under London for three hours now, and John was both amazed and disturbed by Sherlock's memory of the ancient tunnel system. John had yet to see him falter, and they hadn't once had to turn around, or backtrack. Sherlock was heading for a distant point he alone could sense, the way birds knew where magnetic north was while migrating.

"Where are we going, Sherl'?" John asked, finally realizing he had yet to voice that question the entire time they'd been trudging through the gross, nasty shit of the sewers and tunnels.

"This section of tunnel dead ends right beside the rail lines that run beneath 23-24 Leinster Gardens. We are within a thousand yards of Mary as we speak." Sherlock told him, glancing over his shoulder at his doctor.

"Seriously? We're that close?" John sighed loudly in relief, glad this half of the nightmare was almost over. All they had to do was get Mary and go back the way they came. Then he thought through the words Sherlock actually used, and he stopped abruptly, shining his light at Sherlock's tall form. "What do you mean, 'dead ends'?"

Sherlock held up his hand against the bright light, and John lowered it enough so he wouldn't blind the detective.

"I brought the explosives for a reason, John." Sherlock said calmly, motioning to the pack John still carried on his back. "We have to blow our way through to the Underground once we get there."

Sherlock started walking again, and John gaped at his back in complete incredulity. There was no way he heard that correctly. Blow up the Underground?

"Sherlock! We are not going to blow up the Underground! We just stopped a lunatic from doing that last month!" John shouted as he hurried to catch up to Sherlock, feet slapping on the wet stones.

"We aren't blowing up the Underground, just a section of non-load bearing wall." Sherlock replied, and John came up next to the detective as he ran his torchlight up and down a smooth, tall wall in front of them.

"Oh, that's tons better." John snorted, nerves jingling. Only Sherlock bloody Holmes. John watched as Sherlock thoroughly perused the wall, shining his light over every inch, before stopping a few yards away.

"Here." Sherlock put his torch on the ground, the beam aiming at a spot on the wall. "Give me the C4."

"Christ, Sherlock." John swore, but he took off the rucksack and handed it over to his lover. "What if a train is going by at the same time we blow that, and people get hurt?"

"As long as I know what time it is, I can time the detonation to avoid hitting a train." Sherlock said as he took out a small block of C4, a timer and detonator imbedded in the explosive. "I'd be more worried about the trains being late than me getting this wrong."

"Fuck me, Sherlock." John groaned, watching Sherlock attach the small bomb to the wall. Sherlock pulled out his mobile, and stared at the screen. He had the clock up, and appeared to be waiting.

"John, once I set this, run as fast as you can back down the tunnel. Keep going until we hit that last corner about two hundred yards back." Sherlock said, not looking up.

"Oh shit." John's heart was racing, and his fingers were tingling. Adrenaline was pouring into his veins, and he felt like he was running already. Sherlock gave him back the bag, and he threw it over his shoulder, hand gripping his torch tightly. The concussive wave from the explosion would be magnified by the tunnels, and it would devastate everything in its path.

"Get ready." Sherlock said, and John leaned over slightly, slanting his body back the way they had come. Sherlock started counting under his breath, and put his mobile away, and picking up the torch from the floor. John watched, his heart damn near bursting from his chest, as Sherlock started the timer.

"Run!" Sherlock shouted, and they bolted away from the wall. John reached out his hand, and grabbed Sherlock's, and they ran hard and fast down the tunnel. The darkness came up at the swiftly, and they dodged broken stones and puddles in their mad dash down the long tunnel. "Keep going!"

They ran for what felt like forever, until Sherlock yanked hard on his arm, jerking him around a corner that came out of nowhere in the dark shadows. Sherlock threw him to the wall, and plastered himself to John, and the world decided to rearrange itself at that exact moment.

John slapped his hands over Sherlock's ears, and Sherlock did the same for him, as orange light flashed brightly, reflecting off the tunnel, burning stone and hot winds racing after the light. It was the noise, the concussive wave that was so amazingly horrible; it echoed and roared, ricocheting and destructive. The wall trembled at his back, the floor beneath his feet.

John was convinced they were going to die, right up until Sherlock locked lips with him in the chaos. Fire bloomed in him, inescapable and fierce, and he kissed his detective back, adrenaline burning his nerve endings. He kissed Sherlock so hard he bit his lip, making Sherlock gasp and pull back. Sherlock raised a hand to his bottom lip, and it came away wet, a tiny drop of blood on his fingertip.

"Sorry." John grinned, shaking from the incredible high he was living.

"Hmm. We'll see how sorry you are once we get home, Dr Watson." Sherlock winked at him, and John felt all the blood drain out of his head and pool in his groin. Sherlock dodged John's eager hand, and walked back around the corner. John growled, and darted out after him.

They walked back up the tunnel, stepping around the fresh debris on the tunnel floor. There was a patch of light ahead, John felt a breeze running down the tunnel to them, the air cleaner, newer.

"It worked!" John started to jog, eager to get out of the tunnels. Sherlock kept pace with him, and John heard a chiming coming from his detective's pockets as they hit the opening. John stepped through the hole in the wall, and his feet crunched on the gravel of the Tube line. There was a ten foot span between the wall and the nearest track, and John looked down to his right. There was light coming from that direction, and he instinctively began to head towards it.

"John." Sherlock called to him, and he stopped.

"What?" John was about to turn, right up until Sherlock sprinted past him, running full out along the wall, towards the light. "Sherlock, what?"

John caught up to him, Sherlock's mobile bright in the shifting shadows.

"I just got a text from Violet, she sent it an hour ago. Williamson started searching the grid. We may be too late."

John's heart froze in his chest, and he ran faster. Mary was ahead of them somewhere, and she was trapped.

* * *

><p>Jaime Moriarty was tracking the American spy as he searched the park not far from Leinster Gardens. He had been circling the park, looking for houses or flats that appeared to be abandoned, or anything else out of place in this heavily residential area. Jaime was confident he wouldn't see her, as she was crouching in the eave of a roof, the overhang making a deep shadow where she watched, and waited. She was high enough she could be certain she was out of his line of sight, but not so high she couldn't drop to the ground immediately if needed.<p>

He was slowly working his way down the street, to the house Jaime was convinced Mary was hiding. It wasn't so much a house as a shell, surrounding a ventilation hole for the Underground. She was one house over, on the same side of the street, and she could see the interior walls of the shell. Jaime stilled as he came directly under her, and she could see the mobile he had in his hands, the screen lit up on what looked that a real estate website. He was running the addresses, looking for homes that were empty. He would get to the shell house soon enough, and he just might suspect Mary was hiding there once he ran that address.

Jaime waited until he walked on a few more feet, and she reached up for the roof above her, swinging herself up and over. She landed silently on the roof, and kept back far enough she would not be visible from the sidewalk. She was at the edge of the shell house, and she ducked down, pulling her rifle. She crawled to the edge of the roof, able to see down inside the shell house, and the street to either side. She set up the rifle, and waited.

She knew he had found the same target as she when he stopped walking, and abruptly moved to the opposite side of the street. She checked her ammo, and listened. The streets were quiet, everyone sleeping at this late hour, so she could hear the revving of a high powered engine in the distance. They were coming for Mary.

The black SUV careened around the sharp corner, coming down the street, screaming to a stop three houses down. Jaime counted five men pouring out, joining the sixth on the sidewalk. She had more than enough ammo for all of them. There was a noise from far below her, down inside the shell house on the opposite wall. Jaime leaned over carefully, and she raised a brow in mild appreciation as a well hidden panel opened in the wall, about thirty feet above the rail lines. Jaime grinned as she saw the golden head of Mary peer out, looking down into the void.

She was getting ready to toss a spare round at the blonde spy to get her attention, when movement on the street caught her eye. The Americans were approaching, converging on the house. And fast. Jaime lifted the rifle, and fired. The loud report shattered the lazy silence of the predawn hour, and a man dropped to the pavement. The Americans scattered, diving behind parked cars and trash bins, anything close. Jaime ignored the blonde assassin as she started to climb down the wall, heading for the lines three stories below her.

Jaime fired again, dropping another man, his head exploding in bone fragments and red rain. She laughed, blood lust singing in her heart, and drifted the scope over another spy, shooting through the trash bin he was hiding behind. The thin metal did little to stop the bullet, and a third man fell. Jaime ducked, finally taking return fire from the street, two men shooting at her, their shots too close for comfort. She pulled back from the edge of the roof, and checked on Mary. She was nearly to the bottom, and Jaime squinted, thinking she saw lights below her. She swung the rifle around, used the scope to look below, to where Mary was just reaching the ground.

"Dammit!" She muttered, seeing the very recognizable silhouettes of Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson. They had reached Mary first. If Jaime didn't catch up, she may not find Mary until she was a cold corpse in an MI6 morgue somewhere. She clocked the direction the trio disappeared, and swung the rifle back over her shoulder.

Jaime got to her feet, and gauged the distance, the feet she'd fall. Shots were coming thick in her direction, another SUV having pulled on scene. She could run away, and try and find Mary later, or she could jump. It was an easy decision, really. She had nothing to live for anymore, just the never-ending ache in her heart for the blonde assassin's presence.

Jaime backed up, and then sprinted for the void of the Underground vent, pushing off hard from the ledge. She flew over the hole, a train screaming by below her as she headed at a steep angle for the far wall of the shell house. She felt nothing as she fell towards the wall at an incredible speed, and Jaime didn't hesitate to reach for the metal rungs imbedded in the concrete wall. She hit hard, so hard her arms nearly dislocated as she clung to the metal bars, dangling for a heartbeat over the rail lines, the train still barreling past thirty feet below. She didn't want for her stinging hands to acclimate to the pain. She pushed the agony from strained muscles out of her mind, and descended the metal ladder quickly.

She heard men shouting above her through the open panel, and went faster. She knew they had found the panel door when shots began to be fired down the wall at her. Jaime hit the gravel, and ran after Mary. She could see nothing in the darkness ahead of her, but she didn't falter. Mary was just out of reach, and nothing would stop Jaime from seeing her again.

* * *

><p>"Who are they shooting at?" John panted, gun out, covering Mary and Sherlock as they ran ahead of him.<p>

"There was someone on the roof next to the safe house, using a rifle. Whoever it was killed three men as they approached." Mary said, not sounding winded at all, her strides even over the rough gravel. She glanced back over her shoulder, hearing gunfire coming from behind them. "Whoever they're shooting at is still alive, and coming up on us quick."

Mary turned back, and started to jog faster, matching Sherlock's long stride, John still behind them.

"Mycroft send someone after all?" John asked Sherlock as they reached a hole in the wall of the Tube tunnel.

"Ah, that's explains the mini earthquake I felt a while back. Nice." Mary hopped through, not bothered by the muck and nasty smells of the tunnels. She saw there was only one way to go, and went.

"He may have sent someone when we didn't respond to Violet's text. We can ask him once we get back." Sherlock followed behind Mary, his torch illuminating the floor for her. She kept walking, and would only hesitate when they came to a fork. Sherlock would point, and she would resume her relentless pace.

"Should we wait for whoever it is?" John said, looking behind them sporadically.

"No, don't stop. Keep going, Mary." Sherlock pointed down the tunnel, and she walked faster.

Mary would occasionally catch a glimpse of John's face as she kept going, nary a complaint or show of fear. He was surprised by her for some reason. She had been in worse places. This dank, ancient, dirty place was nothing.

"Mary, you okay?" John asked, after ten minutes of silence.

"Yes, why?"

"You just seem very, um, focused." John said, and she rolled her eyes at him. "No one's behind us."

"Look at the floor, John." Mary instructed, pausing for a moment. Sherlock stopped beside her, and they both watched John as he shined his light back the way they came.

"Okay?"

"Ours are the only footprints down here. They will follow. Keep moving." Mary turned back the way she was going, Sherlock a silent shadow at her side, his torch lighting the way for her.

"Oh, gotcha." John said quietly, and Mary laughed for the first time in weeks at the silly tone in his voice, as if he should have known better than to ask.

"Come on John, the fun is about to start." Mary called softly over her shoulder.

"Fun?" He sounded dubious, as well he might.

"Yes, fun. We're about to be hunted by CIA trained assassins in catacombs in one of the oldest tunnel systems in the world. Sounds like fun to me."

"That's fun?" He didn't bother restraining his surprise and dismay.

"For me, at least. I've done far worse in my lifetime. I'm actually interested to see who is better. Me, or the new kids."

Sherlock threw her a glance, and she just grinned at him. John was muttering under his breath, something about hormones and cabin fever. She didn't disagree.

* * *

><p>Jaime paused at the hole blown through the side of the Tube, and she reached in her coat, searching for her torch. She swung the rifle over her shoulder, pulling out her nine mil, eyeing the way she had come. She had whittled the number of agents following down to three from the nine that had come for Mary. They may or may not risk following. If they were smart, they'd fall back and call for assistance or new orders, but this was the CIA, and smart may be a stretch.<p>

Jaime attached a small LED light to her nine mil, flicking it on before diving through the large hole in the wall. She had seen the shadows of men approaching, and heard the ricochet of bullets slapping the walls. Idiots.

Jaime aimed the light down, and could clearly see the footprints on the wet floor. The three were mere minutes ahead of her. Jaime put on more speed, and trusted that Sherlock and John would be more focused on keeping Mary safe and moving than setting booby traps behind them.

* * *

><p>"Someone is behind us." Sherlock whispered, dimming his light with his hand. "Don't stop."<p>

"Is it Mycroft's man?" John asked, whispering back.

"How is he supposed to know that, John? Both of you shut up, keep going." Mary muttered, smacking John on the shoulder in disgust. "What part of 'hunted' was difficult?"

John glared at her as she moved past him, but he said nothing. John couldn't tell if Sherlock was smirking or frowning at Mary's comment.

John kept his gun out relying on Sherlock's light to guide them through. In the deep dark, the faint light escaping past Sherlock's fingers was sufficient to show them where to step. They had been moving swiftly for nearly an hour now, and John figured they were making better progress going back than they had coming through the first time. Mary was moving at a ground-devouring pace, and she had yet to falter. Even carrying a small black bag over her shoulder and a nine mil in her right hand, she was untiring.

John was beginning to feel fatigue, and his legs were heavy from the cold and wet. But he would keep going as long as she did, determined to keep her safe regardless of who was behind them.

They were coming up on a section of the tunnels that split into multiple branches, some angling further down into the abyss, others snaking out into dead ends or cave-ins.

There was a loud pop behind them, and John leaped forward, pushing Mary against the wall, covering her body with his. He aimed his gun back down the way they had come, and he could have sworn he saw a flash of light. Then another. As if they were two people back there, about a hundred yards behind them. John stiffened as he realized that Mary had her gun out, her arm over his shoulder, pointing at the exact same spot. She had moved so fast he hadn't even seen her do it.

There were two more pops, and they saw what looked like muzzle flashes in the far distance.

"Whoever is behind us is either about to die, or they just killed someone else." Mary murmured in his ear. He caught whiff of her perfume, Claire de la Lune, and he swallowed back the memories. The pre-Sherlock-lives memories. Before she went crazy and started killing people because she was pissed off memories.

"Shit, we have people heading this way! Move!" John pushed at her, and Sherlock pointed them to a tunnel just as bullets flew through the air between them. John gasped as he felt a searing white hot heat scorch his upper right arm.

Mary was running, dodging bullets, and she disappeared down a tunnel next to the one Sherlock had tried to get her to go down. John shoved at Sherlock, pushing him down the right tunnel, just as two men ran into the junction behind them.

"Mary!" John shouted, trying to go back for her, but Sherlock had him in a tight grip, and pulled him deeper in the shadows of their tunnel.

* * *

><p>Mary dodged the shots being fired at her, running down the ancient tunnel. She thought she heard John shout her name, but she could do nothing but run as the man behind her kept firing. Bullets were bouncing everywhere, her heart racing in sudden fear that she might get hit. Her baby wouldn't even have a chance to live.<p>

There was shot so loud, so close, that Mary stopped running, looking down, convinced she would feel a gaping hole in her somewhere. She felt nothing, no wetness, no cold and hollow pain, nothing. There was a whisper of sound behind her, and she spun, bringing her gun up.

A shadow reached out from the dark, and snatched her gun from her hand, smooth as silk and easy as breathing. Mary felt her heart seize up, her arms freeze, as the shadow kept moving to her. Instead of a blow, or a stabbing pain, Mary was enveloped in a tight, warm embrace.

"Mary." Jaime Moriarty whispered in her ear. The assassin wrapped her close, every inch of their bodies touching, and Mary couldn't stop the brief cry of disbelief and joy that burst forth. Long brown hair caught back in the familiar braid, the smell of Irish whiskey and mint, and the smooth, perfect face pressed to hers.

Mary sobbed, holding the younger woman, oblivious to the bleeding corpse, his torch still glowing, illuminating the tunnel. Relief, joy, and an overwhelming sense of rightness was filling her up, and Mary felt her walls come down. She was a miracle, a ghost, an unexpected gift in the lonely dark.

"Jaime, sweetheart. I guess you found the knife." Mary choked out, laughing in happiness. She pulled back just enough to see the younger woman's face. Jaime was crying, silent tears running from her dark eyes, a tiny smile on her lips. Mary cupped her face, and without thought, kissed her rescuer.

Jaime gasped, and Mary found herself locked in the most intense kiss she'd ever had. She'd kissed women before, hard not to in the job she'd had for over fifteen years. But this was different. She was kissing someone who admired her, loved her, and understood her as no one else in this world did, or ever could. She was herself with this woman, in her purest form.

Jaime kissed her back, arms tight around her neck, and she was making faint mewling noises of joy deep in her chest as Mary touched her tongue to hers. Fire flared up, running over Mary's caution, making her forget where she was, the last two months of sadness, everything.

There was the sound of a gunfire, and Mary pulled back, gasping for air and wondering where the Hell all that passion had come from. Jaime lifted her gun and handed it back over, raising her own nine mil and aiming it back up the tunnel.

"Oh God, John!" Mary grabbed Jaime's hand, and pulled her back up the tunnel. They ran back to the junction, and Mary paused at the entrance to the tunnel the two men had gone down. There was another flash and a pop, then silence. "No, please no…."

Mary waited beside Jaime, both of them aiming down the tunnel, waiting. The two women put their backs to the wall on either side of the tunnel, and listened.

"Mary!" John shouted from the darkness, and Mary nearly collapsed in relief. She could hear the deep rumble of Sherlock's voice, the men coming back up the tunnel. Mary left her position, and grabbed Jaime, pulling her away from the tunnel mouth.

"If they see you, there'll be a fight." Mary told the younger woman. Jaime merely smiled, her eyes wild in the darkness. "No killing my baby's father."

"Yes, dear." Jaime murmured, and Mary did her best not to laugh. Sherlock and John were almost back.

"Are we still being followed?"

"No, I killed them all. I am guessing John killed the last one." Jaime whispered.

"They can't know you're still alive. John will tell Mycroft if he sees you. Sherlock I'm not sure about, but John will tell the world if he sees you're alive. Jaime, you have to hide. Please." Mary begged, not wanting Jaime to be forced to kill John or Sherlock. And she could, she would. Without blinking.

"Are you certain? Come with me now, and we can disappear, forever. No one will ever find us." Jaime said, her eyes beseeching.

"Oh, sweetheart, I want too. I really do." Mary was surprised by how badly she wanted to go, to run, to disappear with this woman and forget her troubles. But she couldn't. The heart beating beneath hers wouldn't let her give up on it all. "The Vicar has come for me, and if I run, Mycroft Holmes will make sure any chance I have at a future is stripped from me. I may have a chance to get out of this mess intact if I stay with John and Sherlock. I'm pregnant, I can't think for just myself. I will be safe with John and Sherlock. We're going to Mycroft's townhouse. I'll be fine. I'll see you again, I promise."

Jaime looked down the tunnel, the men closer now, running, and their footsteps loud.

"I love you, Mary." Jaime kissed her, and she was gone, evaporating into the darkness.

Mary turned back to the tunnel just as John and Sherlock reached the top, John panting hard.

"Mary, thank God! Are you okay?" John grasped her shoulders, and she was glad the light was minimal. He shouldn't be able to see the tears falling from her lashes, or the bittersweet smile on her lips.

"Turns out they weren't better than me after all. They're dead, let's go." Mary said, glad her voice didn't crack on the tears she was fighting against, and losing.

Sherlock and John parted for her, as she went down the tunnel, not looking back.

_I love you too, Jaime._


	43. When We Take A Breath

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me. **

**Warning: SEX. Totally hot, I can't believe I wrote that scene SEX. Enjoy. And try not to skip over the non-sexy parts. ;-)**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Forty Three<strong>

"_**When We Take a Breath"**_

"Any word yet?" Mycroft asked her softly, eyes darting to the young woman nearby. Anthea saw Violet, huddled in her uncle's suit jacket, forlornly gazing at the CCTV screens.

"No, sir. Nothing. We know the CIA moved in on Leinster Gardens over an hour ago. No chatter on whether or not they got Mary." Anthea replied, head low, modulating her voice so it wouldn't carry to Violet. "It's well into morning now, hopefully we'll hear from Sherlock soon."

Anthea couldn't help herself. She was tired, anxious, and so worried for John, Sherlock and even Mary. She reached out, and did something she had never done before. She wove her fingers through those of the man standing next to her chair, her hand small in his, holding tight. She felt him twitch the tiniest bit, but he didn't shrug her off. Mycroft held her hand, and Anthea watched the CCTV cameras alongside her girlfriend, and the man who was so much more than her boss.

* * *

><p>Silas Williamson wasn't one for fits of rage, displays of anger beyond occasionally raising his voice. As he stared at the operation room's camera feeds and listened to the radio traffic, he found himself re-evaluating his usual need to be cool and calm.<p>

"If I hear any of you say the words 'I don't know' or 'We lost another officer' again, I'm going to rip your spines out through your mouths." His words dropped like acid in the dismayed quiet of the Ops Room, his technicians wisely keeping their heads down. There was no response, just the shuffle of feet on carpet and a quiet cough from a corner.

The entire evening had gone to hell and back the second they got the information packet from MI6. If it wasn't for the officers reporting back a glimpse of a short, blonde haired woman at the fake house in Leinster Gardens, he would be tempted to say this whole night had been a setup. There had been a sniper waiting for them at the safe house, and three of his men had died within minutes of each other, and six more fell in the next two hours. He sent a team after the initial group, and they carried out the bodies of half of his people. Nine of the first eighteen were dead.

"Contact my deputy back at Headquarters. Have him send me two more teams." He picked up his jacket from the back of his chair, and left the room. Williamson pulled out his cellphone, and dialed the US Embassy in London.

"It's Director Williamson. I need the Ambassador at his earliest convenience." He told his State Department contact when the man picked up. "Tell him it's as I predicted- Mycroft Holmes isn't playing ball."

* * *

><p>Sherlock paced beside Mary, noting her pale face, and the way she held her shoulders. Something had happened while they were briefly separated, and whatever it was, it had been enough to disturb her calm exterior. It hadn't been the slaying of the CIA assassins, as she was not the type to grow maudlin over killing in self-defense. He'd seen the shine of tear tracks on her cheeks, and her voice, while controlled and even, was deeper, as if she were fighting sobs.<p>

John was just behind them, still covering their progress in the tunnel system, though Sherlock suspected that their pursuers were long gone. He led them safely through the river tunnel, and past the ancient sewer lines of London, and now they were within a few hundred yards of Mycroft's house. Sherlock had been unable to get a signal on his mobile, and even at the river run off tunnel he had gotten nothing.

John had no luck either, and Mary had left her mobile behind, burned with the rest of the items at Leinster Gardens. So Sherlock pushed them on, figuring everyone could stop worrying as soon as they got back into Mycroft's basement.

"Mary, he's not going to arrest you." Sherlock told the woman at his side, and he saw a flash of deep blue eyes in the light from his torch. "Mycroft won't do that, I won't let him. John won't let him."

He had been thinking that she might be worried about what kind of reception she would be getting, that maybe she was scared. He had no clue what a pregnant woman would be feeling or experiencing, so he figured he'd at least try. She was his to keep safe, because of John, and for herself. He liked Mary; she was hard, stubborn, and intelligent. Rather like him, in the simplest of ways. He didn't hold his broken ribs against her; she had every right to be mad at him. Though it had been less mad, and more violently enraged at the time.

"I know. I'm fine Sherlock. I just need rest." Her thin voice threaded through the damp dark, and Sherlock found himself reaching out, hand inches from her elbow. She sounded very tired, as if she were seconds from falling.

"Mary, you okay?" John asked, walking up to Mary's other side. His doctor was concerned, and Sherlock saw John reach out for her as well. Mary moved closer to Sherlock, drifting away from John as they walked. John dropped his hand, and went back to looking at the ground.

"I'm fine." She sounded so tired, and Sherlock got a tiny tendril of worry through his core when she reached out for him. She gripped his arm, fingers tight in his coat sleeve.

Sherlock said nothing, and slowed his pace by a stride or two, giving her a reprieve without mentioning it. She held on, and Sherlock let her. John glanced over, and he saw Mary's hand clutching at his sleeve. John got a sad, resigned expression, but it faded as the light levels in the tunnels increased.

"John, go ahead, tell them we're coming." Sherlock told his doctor, and was thankful when John raced ahead of them, his figure obscured by the brilliant lights at the end of the tunnel.

Mary must have been waiting for him to go, as she stumbled into Sherlock, legs shaking. Sherlock caught her, swinging her up in his arms. She was shorter than Violet, but far more muscular. Sherlock grew worried as she rested her head on his shoulder without complaint, her arms around his neck. He felt the cold steel of her gun on the back of his neck, her grip firm and sure despite her sudden frailty. He wasn't overly concerned, and increased his pace up the old coal tunnel to his brother's home.

* * *

><p>Mary rested on Sherlock, the tall man holding her easily to his chest. He was strong, far stronger than she would have expected for someone so lean. Her small bag hung from her shoulder, over Sherlock's arm, and she felt it prudent to put her weapon away. Mycroft's security people would likely be jumpy, and an armed foreign assassin would make for some tension.<p>

The lights ahead were bright enough that Sherlock was clearly illuminated, and she could see. She pulled her arm down, and tucked her nine mil under her shirt, in her waistband. Sherlock gave her a sideways glance, but kept on in silence. Mary felt her extremities shaking, and it was hard for her to even hold her head up. Her muscles were so tired she was starting to get numb, her mind disconnected from her body.

This lethargy had come from nowhere, knocking her hard about thirty minutes prior. Seeing Jaime, feeling her, knowing she was alive and well and free made her heart break and bleed and erupt in a painful joy, a riot of emotions she had never felt before. Much of the long walk through the catacombs was spent silently crying, Mary avoiding the torchlight as best she could so that neither man saw her tears. Mary was shocked, amazed at how out of control her emotions were, right up until she remembered she was pregnant.

_Hormones, crazy fucking hormones. And it's going to get even worse….._

Mary couldn't keep her eyes open anymore, and her head rolled on Sherlock's shoulder. The lights were so bright, and she could hear people talking loudly. Voices surrounded them, and Mary picked out the cultured tones of Anthea, the accent of Violet, and a man's voice, which she figured must be Mycroft, as he sounded exasperated and confused all at once.

"I've got her John, she's alright." Sherlock said, his deep voice rumbling under her ear. "She needs to rest, I'm taking her upstairs."

Sherlock carried her for what felt like forever, and she was floating in a gentle place, halfway between sleep and consciousness. It wasn't until she felt a soft bed beneath her that she tried to open her eyes. Violet was smiling down at her, fingers brushing at her cheek. Anthea was at her shoulder, face conveying her concern. Mary peered past the girls, and saw John, Sherlock, and a taller man who must be Mycroft standing in the hall, all of them watching her.

Mary was burdened by a heavy, peaceful feeling, and she barely registered Anthea turning away from the bed, and closing the door on the three men in the hall.

"Hey Sexy. Let's get you cleaned up, then you can sleep, I promise." Violet told her, and she scooped an arm under her shoulders, helping her sit up. "No one can sleep covered in shit."

Mary felt wretched, as if she'd fallen asleep in a car and just peeled herself off the seat. But she had enough of herself intact to whisper thanks to Violet. Anthea came to her other side, and between them they managed to get her on her feet, and in the bathroom. Mary voiced no objections to being stripped down, her only action to take her nine mil back from Anthea as the operative pulled it from her waistband. Mary put the gun on the back of the toilet, and Anthea made no protest.

Violet turned on the shower, and Mary laughed as Violet got in with her, still clothed in what looked like a man's suit jacket and pajamas. She was unique, Violet Hunter.

"No ideas now, Mary. I don't fancy explaining to my uncles why I let you pass out and die in the shower after that spectacular and very stinky rescue. Here's the soap, turn around."

Mary was fairly certain she fell asleep on her feet, Violet scrubbing her clean. She came out of her daze when the water was turned off, and Anthea folded her up in a big puffy robe. She grabbed her gun as the two women helped her back to the bed, and Mary slid the gun under her pillow. She was so tired, she didn't question Violet slipping under the covers with her. She was safe, and warm, and the young woman was familiar. Mary fell asleep with one hand on her gun, with Violet between her and the door.

* * *

><p>Anthea stepped out of her room, softly closing the door behind her. She took one step before nearly smacking into John and Sherlock, Mycroft lounging on the other wall.<p>

"Have the three of you been out here the whole time?" She was incredulous, and found them all utterly sweet. They wouldn't appreciate being thought of as sweet, but here they were, waiting to see how Mary was.

"She okay?" John asked, concern and worry clear.

"She's asleep. We got her cleaned up and tucked into bed. She's sleeping in there with Violet right now." Anthea said, and she gave them all a quick once-over. "May I suggest you two get a shower, too?"

John and Sherlock were filthy from head to toe, and John was bleeding from some kind of injury on his upper right arm. She pointed at the blood trail on his coat sleeve, and he did a double take. Then he noticed the mud, muck and the highly questionable odors coming from their clothing. He pulled away from the wall, nose crinkling at the smell. Sherlock didn't even react, just grabbed at John's arm, trying to see where the blood was coming from.

"The guest room next door is fully stocked. Your clothing will be cleaned and returned after we've all gotten some rest. Mycroft, I'm assuming you'll be sleeping with Gregory, so I'll be taking your room. Everyone, go to bed." Anthea ordered the men, and she shooed John and Sherlock until they went next door, where they would hopefully shower and sleep. It may be morning, the winter sun rising, but they had all been awake far too long and were damn near useless.

"My room?" Mycroft asked, still leaning against the wall, his eyes intense and dark.

"Biggest bed in the house, mine's got two beautiful women passed out in it." Anthea told him, one brow arched sassily at him. He gave her that rare and fleeting grin, before he walked down the hall to the stairs.

"Mycroft." She called softly. He stopped and looked back. "I'm putting the whole house on level one lockdown, in case we get some uninvited visitors while we're sleeping."

"Always thinking ahead. Thank you, dear." Mycroft gave her that very intent look again, and disappeared down the stairs.

Anthea went in Mycroft's room, and stripped down, one piece of clothing at a time, texting orders on her mobile as she went. Level One lockdown in affect. No one, not even the Prime Minister, would be able to enter Mycroft's townhouse without his permission.

She slid under the covers, and buried her face in his pillow. Anthea fell asleep breathing in his pine and scotch scent, as tired as if she had been the one wandering through London's catacombs.

* * *

><p>"John, you're bleeding." Sherlock said to him, both hands on his arm, making a burning sensation race over his arm.<p>

"Ow! Yeah, got shot." John replied, shrugging out of his shirt. His right arm, just below his shoulder was burning and itching, where a bullet grazed him. It left a slight furrow, gauging the skin, cauterizing most of it as it raced by him in the tunnels. A thin line of blood was oozing from the end of it, smeared all over the skin on his arm from his sleeve.

"YOU GOT SHOT?" Sherlock shouted, making him jump. John looked up at Sherlock, startled, to see his detective paler than usual, hands shaking. Sherlock had that blasted, manic look in his eyes, the same he'd gotten last month when Death and Mary had lit him up with lasers while he was napping in his chair.

"Look, it's just a graze! Sherl', love, I'm fine. I'll disinfect it, and wrap it up. I'll be okay in a week or two." John snagged Sherlock's hand, and pulled him over.

John forgot about the mud and questionable smells; he kissed Sherlock, little nips and licks on his firm lips until the panic faded from his detective's brilliant eyes. Sherlock sighed heavily, and finally looked at the injury.

"Oh…. It's not that bad… I forbid you from getting shot again, John." Sherlock declared, his gorgeous face going stern and grim.

John laughed softly, and pulled Sherlock after him to the shower in their borrowed room. Sleepovers at Mycroft's were never boring.

* * *

><p>Greg's first thought when he woke up was that he should really get used to seeing Mycroft every time he opened his eyes. He was sitting in the exact same spot he had been the night before, the only difference this time was that his jacket was missing, and it was morning.<p>

He had awoken earlier, while it was still night, hearing what sounded like numerous people walking around in the halls of this giant house. None had come to his door, and he took another pill, and fallen asleep wondering what Mycroft was doing, and if he would come back anytime soon.

Light came in dull and grey, but it was enough to illuminate Mycroft as he took off his shoes. Greg breathed through his nose, pulling in enough air to clear sleep and pills from his brain. Mycroft was taking off his clothing.

_Mycroft is taking off his clothes. Dear God, I'm still asleep. Or I'm really high._

"Morning." Greg said, softly. Mycroft sent him a glance over his shoulder, and held his gaze for a second, before pulling off his socks and standing up. Greg's body was still feeling the drugs, but watching Mycroft was sending sharp tingles from his gut all the way to his toes, his hands.

"Good morning, Gregory." Mycroft moved to the head of the bed, and Greg was really awake when Mycroft took the corner of the blankets and flipped them back. He looked up, and he found it impossible to pull away from the sight of Mycroft, as his hands went to his tie. The red tie unknotted in slow motion, long slim fingers tugging the silk away from Mycroft's neck. He didn't see where the tie went, as those fingers were working at the shirt buttons, one at a time, all the way down to the waistband of his trousers.

Mycroft undid his belt, tugging it free from the loops, and threw it away, landing on a chair nearby. The shirt followed, leaving Mycroft wearing just a thin white tee and his trousers. Greg was nearly hyperventilating, as those wonderful fingers unsnapped his fly, and the sound of the zipper opening made Greg's entire body shiver, head to toe.

Greg dragged in a breath so deep his wound hurt past the pills, but he hardly felt a thing when Mycroft dropped his trousers and stepped out of them. He was wearing simple black boxers, and he was next to Greg in the bed faster than he could process the fact all of this was real, and _now._

"I've been awake for over twenty four hours, Gregory. Move over, I'm not sleeping on the edge." Mycroft told him, and Greg moved back, letting the other man get comfortable.

Greg had no idea what to do. Mycroft was clothed, and so was he, and yet it felt like he was naked and exposed, vulnerable. His nerves were tingling, and he was surprised to see that the sheets weren't on fire from the heat pouring off of him. Mycroft wasn't moving, his expression calm, but with a hint of mirth around the eyes.

"Come here, Gregory." Mycroft said, and he lifted the arm closest to him, inviting Greg to rest on his shoulder.

Greg gulped, knowing Mycroft saw the nerves written all over his face. This was so new to him. A month of barely being conscious, with some stolen kisses and subtle hand holding was not enough preparation for being in the same bed as a man you spent years obsessing over. And he had been obsessing, even during his marriage, while it fell apart and his wife left him. He had been obsessing while Sherlock was dead, thinking he would never see Mycroft Holmes again, having failed to protect his little brother. Greg had gone through his life on empty, his job and the company of his brothers and sisters at Scotland Yard just enough to keep going.

It was all different now, so far removed from his previous reality he felt like he was living life again from the beginning, everything experienced for the first time. The pain killers were wearing off, and his mind was clearing, his senses rushing to inform him of every little detail of all that he was experiencing. The pain was tamed, and he was thankful, not wanting Mycroft to move away, not wanting him to stop touching him.

Greg put his head on Mycroft's shoulder, awkwardly hugging his stomach, unsure of where to put his arms, and he felt foolish for keeping a few inches between himself and Mycroft's side. Mycroft's arm came to rest on his shoulder, and Greg found himself getting red in the face when Mycroft gently pulled him snug to his side. Those few inches of buffer were gone, and Greg gave up. He put an arm over Mycroft's stomach, his hand tucking up securely on Mycroft's side.

Mycroft said nothing, just held him. Greg started to relax, the other man's steady breathing reassuring, his warmth on this cold winter morning welcome. Mycroft pulled the blankets up with his free arm, and they held each other in the quiet morning, every breath together getting easier, more natural.

"I'm not going to jump you Gregory. Go back to sleep." Mycroft whispered, and he moved his head, just enough to see Mycroft looking at him, eyes half shut and blinking slowly.

_But what if I want you to jump me? I want you. Can't you tell? I don't know what I'm doing, help me…._

"Sorry." Greg mumbled, and he buried his face in Mycroft's shoulder. Mycroft smelled so good. Pine needles, scotch, and the scent of _him._ So wonderful that Greg took a deep lungful, holding it before letting it out slowly. He did it again, and finally noticed as he exhaled that Mycroft was laughing. His chest was shaking, just a little, under his face, and the arm around his shoulders was hugging him closer.

"That tickles." Mycroft gasped out, his voice a whisper. Greg peeked up at him, and found a grin on his face to match the one on Mycroft's. Greg did it again, and he laughed himself when Mycroft started to _giggle. Mycroft Holmes was ticklish._

"Something wrong?" Greg asked innocently, and with the arm still curled up under him, tickled Mycroft's ribs.

Mycroft laughed out loud, swatting lightly at Greg with his free hand. He was convulsing and laughing and Greg loved every second. He kept doing it, as Mycroft begged him to stop, peals of laughter interspersed gasps for air, tears running from his eyes. Greg was relentless, and used both hands, racing them across Mycroft's stomach as the ice cold spymaster had a giggle fit in bed.

"Stop it! Oh dear God, you evil man!" Mycroft laughed so hard his pillow fell off the bed, and Greg was laughing with him. He raised his hands to attack again, but Mycroft rolled over on top of him.

Greg found himself fully under Mycroft, his arms up over his head. Mycroft had done it swiftly, and gently, and there was the barest of twinges from his injury. The pills were still numbing the pain, but wearing off fast enough that his body was able to respond to the man above him. And his body responded strongly, waking up eagerly. All thoughts of laughter fled, as Mycroft settled his hips right on top of his groin, legs between his. There was no time to be startled, his lips trapped under Mycroft's.

The lips on his were firm, and moved with expert ease. He gasped, and Mycroft took advantage, tongue slipping in his mouth, the tip teasing his own. Greg stopped, stopped thinking, stopped breathing, and stopped being everything else but the sensation of the man on him, his weight, the heat, the hard cock pushing against his groin.

His eyes shut, and he tipped his head to the side, returning the kiss, his tongue sliding along the side of Mycroft's. They were so deep in each other that they were breathing each other's air. Greg moaned, the sound escaping into Mycroft's mouth, and Mycroft responded by the gentlest of thrusts with his hips. Greg did it again, and Mycroft moaned with him, gyrating with his hips so very gently on top of him, rubbing over his groin.

Mycroft lifted his head, and his eyes skewered Greg with their intensity. Greg kissed along his jaw, working his lips towards Mycroft's ear, sucking on the lobe before nipping the little piece of flesh. Mycroft thrust his hips when he did, pushing harder, cock insistent and hot and making Greg moan.

He was hard too, so hard the fabric of his sweat pants was making him quiver as Mycroft rubbed himself on him again, hips pushing him down in the mattress. He was burning up inside, a tight ball of liquid flame rolling in his center, waves flowing over, lapping down his limbs to his toes and fingers. He found a sweet, delicious spot on Mycroft's neck, and sucked, teeth lightly scraping over the salty skin. Mycroft gasped, arching his neck, giving Greg better access.

Greg took his chance, this moment to mark Mycroft, show the world he had done the impossible and made the spymaster his. Mycroft belonged to Greg, forever. Mycroft may have his hands locked over his head, hips spreading his thighs, cock rubbing so dominantly over his own- but he belonged to Greg, and only Greg. He sucked hard, tongue lapping at his neck, teeth nipping. He pulled back, and groaned when he saw the livid red mark low on Mycroft's neck. It would bruise up a brilliant deep red, and Mycroft would see it, know who marked him, no matter where he was or what he was doing.

Mycroft thrust harder, grinding on him, and Greg threw his head back on his pillow, and he thrust his hips back, wrapping his legs tightly around Mycroft's thighs, locking his ankles. Mycroft kissed his face, his jaw, his neck, every touch sending sharp jolts of heat through his core to his groin.

"Let me fuck you, Gregory." Mycroft whispered in his ear. His words made Greg cry out, eager and willing and terrified. "I'll be gentle, please."

"I've never….I don't know how." Greg gasped, Mycroft's thrusts stealing his ability to speak.

"I have, I know what to do… I've wanted this for so long." Mycroft was begging, lacing his plea with wet, openmouthed kisses, each one knocking down Greg's resistance, his nerves. "Please."

"Yes, please yes!" Greg told his lover, tongue rubbing on Mycroft's, the wet heat addicting.

Mycroft let go of one of his arms, sliding a hand down his shoulder, his chest, to his hip. He lifted away quickly, and Greg's legs opened, and in one smooth motion Mycroft had his sweatpants down around his thighs. The cool morning air made his skin tighten up, hairs all over his body lifting, and Greg cried out as Mycroft pulled his sweats all the way off.

Mycroft knelt on the mattress between his legs, eyes locked on the throbbing cock bared before him. He pulled his shirt off over his head, and slid his fingers under the waistband of his boxers. Greg was panting, chest rising and falling fast, watching as Mycroft pulled his boxers down, revealing his own cock, rigid and full. Greg's arms were still over his head, and he found he couldn't move, even though Mycroft wasn't holding him anymore. He was held down by the sight before him, the absolutely engrossing, unbelievably sexy and erotic man who made his blood pound.

"Fuck me." Greg whispered, overcome by everything, shocked and aroused and utterly lost as to what to do next. All thoughts of injury and indecision were distant memories, fading away until the savage heat burning just under the skin.

"I plan on it." Mycroft came back over him, holding himself off Greg with his arms, staying on his knees. Mycroft reached past him, and Greg heard a drawer in the nightstand opening. Mycroft came back with a small bottle, and Greg huffed out a quick burst of laughter at the sight of the lubricant.

"I think you've been planning this since before I moved in." Greg whispered, as Mycroft went back to kneeling between his legs. He lost all laughter when Mycroft, without warning, cupped his cock and balls in one hand, lifting him and gently squeezing. It felt so fucking good, so different, he cried out, eyes shutting. Mycroft wrapped two fingers around the base of his shaft, and with his other hand, cupped his balls and tugged, just the tiniest amount.

Greg's hips jerked when Mycroft stroked up his shaft, fingers knowing immediately what he liked, as his brain melted out of his ears and his body spontaneously combusted. He heard whimpering, and crying, and he wondered who was being tortured until he realized he was making those noises; Mycroft destroying him with each firm, slow, awesome stroke and tug. Greg was thrusting an inch or so off the bed in time with Mycroft's hands, the spymaster working him, owning him with confident mastery. Greg surrendered, trusting implicitly that Mycroft would see him through the lust and nerves to the other side of lake of fire that burned inside of him.

Mycroft increased his pace, Greg shamelessly crying out in time with his hands, hips jerking and thrusting, his own hands grasping the headboard above him. He was so close, and he wanted something he couldn't voice. He wanted Mycroft. So badly.

"Please!" Greg cried out, his entreaty echoing off the walls.

Mycroft stilled, making Greg sob out in denial, so close to an orgasm he damn near slipped off the edge as Mycroft lifted his hands away. He was panting, tears running down his temples, lungs burning from breathing so hard, his cock aching and throbbing. He heard Mycroft open the bottle, and he cracked open his eyes, to see the spymaster rubbing lubricant over his own cock. The sight made his cock twitch, so hard it hurt. He could watch that forever.

Mycroft shocked him intensely when he poured more lubricant on his fingers, and without warning, rubbed his fingers firmly over Greg's ass. His legs were spread, and Mycroft grabbed the thigh opposite from his injury, lifting his leg up, granting him better access. His long fingers spread the lubricant around the tight hole, pushing and teasing. Greg jerked, his cock throbbing in time with Mycroft's ministrations. He panted, each breath loud and exhausted, hands gripping the headboard, as Mycroft put his fingers to his ass and thrust two of them knuckle deep.

"Fuck!" Greg cried out, clenching his ass cheeks, lifting his hips, Mycroft's hand following him as he did. It was so new, so different, he had no chance to decide whether or not he liked it as Mycroft spread him open. The dripping lube on his fingers was cool, and Greg writhed on the bed when a few drops entered him, easing Mycroft's fingers as they slid deeper. Mycroft pushed his fingers as deep as they could go, and he curled them just a bit.

What happened next would stay with Greg his entire life. It was a supernova of light and sound and it all happened in his head, behind his eyes, blinding him and rendering him deaf, oblivious to all but the powerful touch deep inside him. A touch that lit a fuse, burning up his spine to meet the explosion of ecstasy that raged in his head and heart.

"There you are, that's it… perfect." Mycroft whispered to him, as Greg sobbed and pleaded for mercy, Mycroft's fingers rubbing his prostate, expert little motions that made him scream raggedly each time. Mycroft knew every centimeter of that bundle of life-ending pleasure, and he showed Greg just how perfect he thought he was with his fingers.

"Please!" Greg whimpered, crying in need, begging.

Mycroft pulled his hand away, and when he left, Greg mourned his absence, feeling empty. Mycroft grabbed his leg again, and Greg cried out in shock when Mycroft lifted him by it, his knee bent over his shoulder, hips off the bed a few inches. Mycroft roped his arm securely around his thigh, and with the other, maneuvered his cock to Greg's ass.

"Please, dear God please….."

Greg was sobbing, using his free leg to lift his hips to Mycroft, and he was begging, begging for Mycroft to take him. The man above him was a stranger, eyes ablaze with lust, panting hard with need, his expression far from the icy mask he usually wore.

"I love you." Mycroft whispered, breath harsh and ragged. And with those words he thrust forward, the broad head of his cock pushing relentlessly on the tight hole. Greg gripped the headboard so hard he was certain his fingers were about to snap off, and the bed would break.

Greg was shaking, clenching every muscle in his body, unable to breathe, mouth open in shock, eyes burning. Mycroft held him still, pushing in, and the tension was so high that when the hard head of Mycroft's cock finally breached his ass, Greg moaned helplessly with relief, his whole body shuddering. Mycroft sank himself to the hilt, seating his cock as deeply as it could go.

Greg screamed softly, overwhelmed. The long hard throbbing cock in his ass was so new, so different, the heat coming from it making Greg sweat. It hurt too, a powerful burning at his entrance, stretched far wider than two fingers worth. The pain melded with the stretching, the tension, and his body was clenching instinctively on the invasion.

"You are so tight, so fucking tight." Mycroft groaned. He wasn't moving, just throbbing in time with his heartbeat, buried to the hilt. Greg was whimpering, eyes locked on Mycroft, incapable of moving, and not wanting to. He was overcome, thoughts erased, fears evaporated like steam poured over a fire. He was the fire.

When Mycroft began to move, not pulling away, rocking his hips, Greg reached out with one hand, and Mycroft clasped it. Their joined hands pressed hard to Greg's hip, as Mycroft held him up, and took him.

The spymaster pulled back, and carefully withdrew, Greg clenching tightly around him, his hand squeezing Mycroft's so hard a part of him was worried he might break something. The long length inside him pulled away, leaving an achingly empty feeling behind.

"Noooo…" He begged, words escaping on their own, and he tried to push himself on Mycroft, but he had no strength, his body too weak to make his lover return.

"Shhhh….. I'm here." Mycroft reassured him, and thrust back in, a long, sure deep stroke that made fresh tears run from his eyes.

"Love you….." Greg's eyes shut, and he arched his back, as Mycroft withdrew again, and thrust back in, faster now. The pace was slow, relentless and without pause, the spymaster taking him again and again. The pressure, the stretching, all of it was too much, too overwhelming. Yet his body craved it, ached for it, and Greg cried out in time with Mycroft, each stroke sending jolts of heat and electricity though his body. They were so tangible he would swear to his dying day that they were both in a firestorm, lightning striking on them both.

"More…." Greg called out, and suddenly he lost his grip on Mycroft's hand. The spymaster grabbed his other thigh, and even as he thrust, not once breaking rhythm, he lifted Greg's other leg to drape over his shoulder. Greg had both legs on Mycroft's shoulders, and he was fully exposed, his ass level and perfectly aligned for Mycroft to do as he wished. It changed the angle, the depth of his thrusts, and Greg screamed again, both hands slamming into the headboard, clutching. His cock was rubbing over that special place deep inside, slipping across it with every thrust, back and forth. A keening wail of disbelief and sweet, hot, raging pleasure escaped from him, a sound he could never replicate if he tried.

Greg's body let Mycroft in, no resistance now, the steady beat and thick heat opening him, every thrust becoming more and more welcome. His cock slid in and out, and Greg did his best to please his lover, consciously tightening his muscles as Mycroft withdrew, easing as he thrust back in.

The room fell away, the bed beneath them fog under a strong morning sun. They were alone, their bodies straining and clinging to each other. Mycroft was groaning, every time he thrust hilt deep. Greg pried his eyes open, to see Mycroft watching him. Their eyes met, held, and the heat flashed hotter, higher.

"Now!" He demanded, his orgasm coming forth, a band of tension pulled tight in his core. And it snapped, a reverberation of pleasure in his foundations. Mycroft whipped his hand out, and stroked Greg's cock as he came. His seed spilled out in thick spurts across his stomach, Mycroft thrusting fast as he worked his lover.

Greg shattered, his yells of release loud in the room, his body convulsing. He surrendered to the fire, writhing in the flames, unaware of the universe as he burned, tightening around Mycroft so much he pulled a shout from the other man.

Mycroft plunged deep, and Greg could feel him coming, his cock jerking and swelling. Mycroft came hard, shuddering against Greg's hips, arms wrapped around his legs, head back as he breathed through his own orgasm. A space of a single breath, the time between heartbeats, was perfection, the two of them joined together wonderfully as any lovers could hope to be.

Greg eventually crawled out from the fire, the pool of liquid flame that simmered still in his core. He blessed whatever fortitude he had possessed to keep his eyes open, to watch Mycroft's impeccable control break apart like ice under a summer sun. It had captivated him, seeing the man he loved past all reason and expectations come apart and just let go. To be himself, at a basic and primal level that Greg appreciated and understood intimately.

Mycroft stirred, and pressed a kiss to his knee. Mycroft's tight grip on his legs eased, and the spymaster lowered a leg one at a time to the bed, withdrawing gently as he did. Greg felt a twinge, but he was okay with the ache. Sex wasn't meant to be only soft sighs and pretty words. It was fine to come out on the other side of it sporting a bruise or two, if both partners were happy. And by all that's holy, was he happy.

Greg moaned at the state of his shirt, wet thick stains on it. He shrugged, glad he had been wearing it, and peeled it off, finally naked as Mycroft. The poor man was still kneeling on the mattress, head low, breathing fast. Greg threw his shirt away, hearing it hit the floor. Greg opened his arms, and nudged at Mycroft's hip with a toe.

"C'mon here."

Mycroft lifted his head, and Greg grinned in sympathy at the exhaustion, the sated look on the spymaster's face. Mycroft awkwardly crawled up his body, avoiding Greg's injury, and he cuddled Mycroft to his shoulder. The poor man was still breathing hard, his heart racing, and Greg got the fleeting thought that while Mycroft certainly knew what he was doing in bed, it was obvious he hadn't been doing anything other than sleeping in it lately. Which was just fine with him, he wasn't the type to share.

Mycroft snagged the blankets, and managed to pull them up over their shoulders before collapsing completely on Greg. He kissed Mycroft on the top of his head, snuggling closer, no space between them under the covers.

"I love you, Mycroft." He whispered. He never meant those words more than he did right now.

"Love you too." Came the sleepy reply, and Greg did his best not to laugh in delight as the most powerful man in England passed out on his shoulder, naked as the day he was born, a smile on his face.

Greg was so happy, content, relaxed, that he was able to ignore the incessant throbbing of his wound. The pain came out in sharp jabs, in time with his heart, complaining bitterly about the exercise he had just gotten. Greg was so happy he chuckled, thinking that his recovery would be a lot faster if he had this kind of physical therapy every day.

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><p>Mary felt the faint twinge, rubbing her hand over her lower abdomen as the pain came and went. She pressed her face into the sweet smelling pillow, wondering when the settee had gotten so comfortable, and the smell of lilacs was refreshing. Her stomach flinched as another sharp pain radiated out from under her hand, and Mary gasped.<p>

She wasn't at Leinster Gardens anymore, and there was something wrong…

Her eyes shot open, fear choking her, bile welling up in her throat. She was cramping, enough that it was making her cringe. She started to pant, fear making her bite her lip and struggle to sit up. Violet was sleeping next to her, and Mary fought back tears, panic screaming in her heart.

"No…. please no…" Mary begged, and she sat up against the headboard, pulling her knees up to her chest, arms tight to her stomach. "Violet!"

Violet jerked awake, and pushed her hair out of her eyes, looking around the room in confusion. Her eyes landed on Mary, as the blonde woman panted around the pain.

"Mary? What's wrong?" Violet sat up, and put her hand on Mary's shoulder, her face growing alarmed as Mary shook violently, tears pricking, one falling free to trail down her cheek.

"Get John! Now! Please." Mary pressed a hand to her mouth, and she tried her hardest not to panic, not give into the fear that she may be having a miscarriage.

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><p>Sherlock stretched, opening his eyes. The day was nearly done, the sun setting fast, dark clouds littering the horizon. He was able to see out over the private garden of his brother's house, and spotted a few flakes of snow coming down. Just looking outside made him cold, and he shivered as the sun set with one last brilliant flash over the city.<p>

The twilight gloom was enough for Sherlock to see clearly, and he stared at the ceiling, mind and heart distracted by a nagging, incessant feeling that he was forgetting something. Missing something- an occurrence that so rarely happened, that when it did, he had no place to hide.

Sherlock turned his head, to see John fast asleep next to him. The white bandage around his arm was still pristine, which meant the bullet wound hadn't bleed as they slept. Sherlock didn't bother hiding his relief, John sleeping, and no one else around to see his emotions.

Seeing John injured earlier had torn at him, a choking sense of loss and terror clawing its way up his throat from the hole it cowered in, deep inside where he kept all his insecurities and fears. The fear that he would lose John Watson was his deepest, ugliest secret, one so vile that he refused to think it; he would repress it and the horrid emotions that accompanied it with ruthless effort.

He sat up, crossing his legs, and propped his chin on his steepled hands, elbows on his knees. Sherlock watched John sleep, his lover relaxed and peaceful. The grey in the doctor's blonde hair was slightly more pronounced than it had been years ago before he left, on his two year hunting expedition for Moriarty's syndicate. The lines around John's eyes, and the faint ones near his mouth were deeper, but not to the casual observer. Sherlock wasn't a casual observer; every aspect of John was dutifully observed, analyzed, and catalogued. John Watson held the honor of having the largest part of Sherlock's mind palace devoted to him, and all things concerning him too.

Sherlock breathed deep, and relaxed, eyes drooping shut. He focused on each breath, and sank down into his mind palace. He fell away from the guest room, the bed beneath him, and opened his eyes to his mind palace. He shrugged his shoulders, popped up his coat collar, and walked behind the memory of himself and John, as they strode together down a street in London.

The day was cold, but not as cold as it currently was in London. This was the Christmas before the Fall, John dragging Sherlock out shopping for something or other as they came back from a case. John mentioned something about getting Mrs. Hudson a smartphone, or a laptop, so that she didn't have to keep borrowing Mrs. Turner's.

This Christmas was preserved not because of the trauma of The Woman's supposed 'death', nor was it preserved because it was the last holiday they had together before Sherlock faked his own death and left John behind. This memory was special to Sherlock because of what it had done to him, in the briefest of instances.

Sherlock followed Spectral Sherlock and John as they stopped at an electronics store, John going in after Spectral-Sherlock grumbled and shoved a handful of notes at him for his part in buying Mrs. Hudson's gift. Sherlock had refused to go in the store, seeing the sheer number of people in there, the numbers making his head hurt and his patience, already nonexistent, fray at the thought of mingling.

Sherlock flinched at what he was about to see, and took over the memory, removing the Spectral version of himself, and placing his view of the memory in his direct control. He had no desire to see how past-Sherlock would deal with what was about to happen.

So John had gone in alone, dodging his way through the holiday crowd. Sherlock watched him through the windows of the storefront, bored out of his mind, and idly deducing every person John had bumped into while in the store. He bumped into a lot of them, and Sherlock found himself enjoying the process of deducing each one as quickly as possible before John collided with someone else. He was winning, as much as anyone could win such an activity, and split his focus, deducing people as part of his mind would try and predict who John would collide with next.

So engrossed was he in watching John and the deductions flying off the people in the store that he almost didn't see the gun, or the junkie wielding it. One of the people who accidentally bumped into John had backed up quickly, as John walked on, and that person then smacked hard into the well-dressed drug addict looking at a laptop. The addict's coat pulled against his hip, and Sherlock had seen the silhouette of a gun under the coat.

Sherlock trembled as the memory of absolute terror choked him, wracked his limbs, and shattered his preoccupation with playing. John was in a crowded, small store surrounded by people stressed out and neurotic from the holidays, and there was junkie in there carrying a gun. It had all the earmarks of a total bloody disaster, and John was trapped in the middle of it all. Sherlock watched the junkie, who hadn't done anything more than snap at the other person, before returning his attention back to the laptop.

Sherlock had pulled out his mobile and texted John. He hadn't told him about the gun, or the junkie; all he had said was that he was tired of waiting, and John needed to hurry up or he would get left behind. Sherlock hadn't known what to do with himself; the junkie was making no aggressive moves, but the potential for violence was there, and John was too close. His doctor had replied, saying he had found what he wanted and was on his way out.

Those few minutes before he came back out to Sherlock's side on the street had been an interminable hell of a wait. Sherlock was at a loss, thoroughly confounded by what he was feeling, by what his body was experiencing. He felt ill, sweaty, chilly and hot. He was rarely sick, but as John made his way out of the store, passing the junkie as he did, Sherlock could have sworn he was dying.

He had no experience with fear, nothing tangible until a few months later when he and John had gone to Baskerville, met the Hound, and tasted the terror fog. So when he felt terror that day as John went shopping for a silly present, Sherlock hadn't known what it was, or how to process what he was feeling. All he had known at the time was that John, his John, was too close to something dangerous, and was just past his reach. He had felt foolish, silly, and crammed everything he was feeling as deep as he could, just as John had rejoined him on the sidewalk.

John had started for home, and Sherlock had paced beside him the whole way. He ignored the tiny part of him that was berating himself for walking so near to John as they traveled back to Baker Street.

If he had the experience then that he did now, he would have known that he was deeply, passionately, devastatingly in love with John. And that no matter the depth of his infatuation with The Woman, if he had come to terms with what he was feeling, she never would have deceived him, pulled his attention away from the grand picture. He would have won all that much sooner, and her hold on him would have be lesser than it had been at the time.

So this memory remained, for its simplicity. It had driven home to him how deeply John had imbedded himself in Sherlock's psyche, his cells, his entire being. For the longest time he had no idea why he kept it, why he would think of it, why it was saved rather than discarded.

It was saved because it was there, in that moment- that Sherlock Holmes had begun to realize that there was nothing that frightened him more than the prospect of losing John. The thought hadn't fully crystallized until the confrontation with Moriarty months later, but that day during Christmas was its genesis.

"Sherlock?" John's voice threaded its way through the streets of his mind palace, jarring him from his uncomfortable memory. "Oh, I see. Stay in there, love. Don't rush back."

Sherlock slowly came back, part of him smiling as John recognized that he was deep in his mind palace. Most people had no clue, and would rudely interrupt, some even touching him to get him to 'snap out of it', whatever 'it' was. People were idiots. But not his John; his doctor knew instantly what he was doing, and how to treat him. And for that, Sherlock prized his doctor even more. There was no one in the whole world who knew him better than John Watson.

Sherlock sighed, withdrawn completely from his palace, and blinked his eyes open. John was sitting up, facing him on the bed, and Sherlock had no word to describe the look on his face other than love. John loved him. He dropped his hands to his knees, and stared at John, eyes taking in every inch of his well-muscled and naked doctor.

"Morning." Sherlock said, and he smiled back as the doctor gave him that sweet smile.

"Morning, Sherl'. What were you after? Anything in particular?" John asked, and he inched forward a bit on the wide mattress. John mirrored his pose on the bed, hands clasping his knees, eyes bright even in the fading light. Sherlock figured he could lean forward, and without much effort, press his lips to John's.

So he did, keeping his eyes to John as he bent forward, and he kissed his doctor, his lover. He felt John smile as he kissed him, noses rubbing together, eyes so near that Sherlock could see the deep grey blue in perfect clarity. There was kindness in those eyes, a warm, loving man with the heart of a lion.

"I was after you, John." Sherlock said, deepening the kiss. He lifted his hands, framing John's face, and he tilted his head just enough to let him lick at John's lips, before sliding his tongue past them. John responded, their tongues meeting in a slow, patient dance.

The kiss was gentle, intimate, and Sherlock resisted the urge to make it faster, harder. He wanted to be slow, savor every taste, every wet slide and breathy gasp of air. John met him touch for touch, his own hands rising to grasp Sherlock's wrists, thumbs over pulse points. His doctor's fingers rubbed over his skin, smooth and light, small sparks bursting across his skin as they drifted down to his elbows, and back up to his wrists.

Sherlock let his eyes close, breath mixing with John's, his doctor making quiet moans of delight as they kissed. John sighed, happy, and Sherlock wouldn't let him pull away from their kiss as his doctor knelt up on his knees. John pushed Sherlock back, slowly, mouth compelling him to lay down, on his back. John came over him, straddling his hips, their naked bodies touching as intimately as their tongues and lips.

John broke off the kiss, lifting a bare inch or so back. His lips were red and swollen, face flushed. John was aroused, his cock rubbing over Sherlock's stomach as he leaned over the detective. It was hot, and hard, and Sherlock moaned softly, shivering as John throbbed between them. John thrust softly, not too much, just enough to rub his cock over Sherlock's flat stomach.

"I love you, John." Sherlock told him, hands rubbing up and down John's sides, settling on his hips. Sherlock tugged, pulling John down on top of him. John rested fully on top of him, his muscular weight wonderful and invigorating.

His arms braced on either side of Sherlock's head, and their kiss began anew, as if it had never stopped. They shared but one breath between them, the same love, the same heat, building so patiently. This heat was theirs, a fire banked for now, content to burn as deep red embers instead of a raging inferno.

"I love you too, Sherlock. I've loved you for years." John whispered in his ear, breaking the kiss to nibble gently along Sherlock's jaw. "I fell so hard, so surely. What I fool I was, all those years ago."

"A fool?" Sherlock asked, lifting his hips the smallest amount, pressing John's arousal more firmly to his stomach. Its heat was incredible, and Sherlock wanted to feel more of it. His own arousal was growing swiftly, and John must be aware of it, as it was snuggly planted along his ass.

"I missed so much by not recognizing my feelings for you. I knew I loved you, I truly did, but I didn't know how much, and in what way." John told him, planting a kiss just below his ear. Sherlock gasped, and his hands gripped John's hips tighter. "I think I fell for you the second you winked at me, after you blew my mind with those irritating and incredible deductions, the first time we met."

"Oh! ... John…" Sherlock moaned as John began to rotate his hips, alternating between rubbing his cock on Sherlock's stomach, and moving so Sherlock's cock rubbed on his ass. "I'll wink at you every day for the rest of our lives if that's what it'll take to keep you mine."

"I'll never stop being yours, Sherlock." John said, serious and intense. "You have every part of me, forever."

The sound of a door crashing against a wall was loud, even though their door was shut securely. John and Sherlock both turned to the door, just as they heard someone bang on it rapidly.

"John! It's Mary! She thinks there's something wrong with the baby!" Violet yelled through the door.

Sherlock lifted John off of him, and the doctor jumped from the bed, grabbing a pair of pajama bottoms that he hadn't bothered to put on before they went to bed. John grabbed a robe, and ran to the door. Sherlock was on his heels, pausing only long enough to hop into his own bottoms as John flung open the door.

Violet ran back to Anthea's room, where Mary had been sleeping with her all day. John followed, robe billowing out behind the doctor as he ran the few steps to the room next door, swinging in to the room.

Mycroft's bedroom door opened down the hall, and Sherlock saw Anthea come running from his room, barefoot and disheveled from sleep. She joined Sherlock at the door to her room, watching John approach the curled up form of Mary as she huddled on the bed. Her soft sobs were barely audible from where they were standing, but Sherlock felt an icy chill run over him as he stood in the hall.


	44. Allegiance

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**WARNING: Sex. Naughty rough sex.**

**A/N: Due to how time consuming it is writing two massive chapters twice a week, I will be cutting back to posting one chapter per week while I work on my other projects. I am NOT abandoning this story, I love it too much. And I wouldn't do that to you guys. It's hard working full time and writing full time. Now if only I got paid to write fanfiction. ;-)**

**I am beyond thankful for the reception I have gotten from this site, and the amount of love this story has seen. Just a few hours ago this story hit over 30,000 views. Wow. That's a tremendous honor. 30,000 views! Thank you, every one of you. By the time I wrap this story up, who knows how many views it'll have? But no worries, we're only halfway through Part Two, and we have yet to get to Part Three!**

**Please enjoy, and if you do, drop me a review. I love to hear from you all.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Forty Four<strong>

"_**Allegiance"**_

"My lady, I was beginning to worry." Clay jumped to his feet as she entered the room, dumping her long coat on the table, mud dripping from the hem. Her rifle followed, ammo exhausted. Her nine mil was equally empty, and Jaime was glad that the CIA hadn't sent more men after Mary. The stench of expelled rounds followed her, the damp of London clinging to her hair, her clothing.

"Clay, you never worry." Jaime murmured sarcastically, but without malice.

She cast her dark eyes over her bodyguard. He stood at attention, black clothing doing little to hide the muscles and scars of his previous profession. He had been one of her brother's mercenaries, and his loyalty to the Moriarty clan had never been questioned.

Clay was the youngest of the lot, of the men she had rallied to her side over the last few years. Handsome, with strong defined features and the dark, perfect complexion his mixed race parents gifted him, and pretty brown eyes. A young soldier disenchanted by active service, he changed his fortune by hiring himself out as a merc. And he had been very, very good at it. So good that she had spared him from the Holmes brothers.

The days after Blackwood exploded were hazy, as she came out of the experience slightly singed. She had indeed found the knife Mary left in the jacket, and when the good doctor dragged the Holmes brothers out of the ballroom, Jaime broke free from the cell and escaped the manor. She took the long way out, through the old study window on the far side of the great house, and had tumbled down the forested hillside as the manor went up in flames. The fall, and the burning debris, left her bruised and scorched across her back, below her shoulders.

Jaime spent the next day in the manor's park, waiting for the emergency crews to put out the fires, and clear out. Jaime dumped everything, her mobile bashed under a tree branch, her gear thrown in the river. The only thing she kept was Mary's jacket, and her own silver blade. It had been a gift from James, on her sixteenth birthday, and she would burn in hell before she surrendered it. She was lucky enough to have been able to grab it from the floor as she ran from the cage, and those spare seconds scooping it up nearly cost her the time she needed to get out.

Clay was one of the few members of her guard she brought back into the fold, the rest left believing she was dead and burned. Jaime estimated that nearly two dozen of her men were still alive, having survived the London bombings the month prior. She had left money and clean passports for her men at assigned rendezvous points across England, and each was to go to their own cache if she died before the bombs all exploded.

It was at one of these caches that she found Clay, the foolish man sitting on the ground, his go-kit next to him, doing his manly best not to cry over her presumed death. She had watched from the shadows, leaning on a tree, burnt and bloody, and totally confused as to why he was upset. It wasn't until he had choked on her name that it clicked. He was sad that she was dead.

When she walked out of the night, to stand above him as he sat on the cold ground, he had sworn she was a ghost, jumping to his feet and pulling his weapon. It took her laughter to convince him that she wasn't a specter. She had been a wreck, bloody, dirty, covered in soot and smelling of sulfur and ozone. Yet Clay, the youngest of her guard, pulled himself together, and scooped her up as she passed out in front of him.

She awoke the next morning, bandaged, clean and clothed, with her knife sheathed on her thigh. Clay had hidden her away in an old safe house her brother would use for his clients. She recovered there, sneaking out sporadically to see the damage at Blackwood, and to look for signs of Mary.

"Of course, my lady." Clay waited beside the table, where she saw the remains of take-away from a local pub. He must have left while she was killing spies in the catacombs.

"I am not a lady, Clay." Jaime said, her silver knife in her hand, twirling it in her fingers from habit, the motions providing comfort. She twirled the knife as other people would pace; it cleared her head, calmed her nerves, and brought back memories of her brother. She hid a smile as Clay stiffened, gaze locked on the long blade, the edge glinting in the lights. "My unfortunate husband is long dead, and I was never truly Sybil Moran."

"I…. yes, ma'am." Clay was engrossed in the blade, and Jaime flipped it up, his eyes following it as it tumbled through the air. She caught it without looking, making him twitch as she did. Men were so squeamish.

"Are the others back yet?" She asked, slipping the knife back in its sheath on her thigh. She went to the table he had been sitting at, and picked up the last half of his sandwich, taking a big bite, and taking his chair. He voiced no complaint, and she tore it in half, giving him the end.

Clay took it, surprise at her action evident in how he lost the smooth efficiency of movement all her men had. She chewed, waiting on his answer. She had all the time in the world now, as Mary was safe for the moment, and Williamson foiled. He wouldn't be for long, but Mary was safe for the next couple of days as that cold bastard tried to figure out what happened.

She giggled to herself, thinking he was most likely to blame Mycroft Holmes for her activity at the safe house, and Mycroft would have no idea what he was talking about. The blame would be cycled about, each man then focused more securely on the other, and hopefully ignoring the potential for a third party.

"They should be back any time, a man left on station at Holmes' townhouse, and at the CIA safe house. I've arranged for rotations of the men, so we should be able to keep an eye on them twenty-four seven." Clay told her, chewing with his mouth shut after she sent him a narrow eyed glare.

"You've kept yourself out of that rotation, I hope?" Jaime asked, throwing her booted feet up on the table and leaning back in the chair. She put her head back, stretching out tired muscles, able to see Clay from her upside down position. She felt the burn scar along her back tug as she stretched, but it wasn't unpleasant. Some pain was welcome, reminding her that she was alive, and that she must stay that way, and not for her sake. For Mary she would live on, regardless of the hollow devastation in her heart, the echoing emptiness in her soul.

"I have, yes ma'am. As you requested." Clay shifted on his feet, and she could tell he was wondering why she wanted him out of rotation. He was doing his best not to look at her as she leaned back further in the chair, the front legs lifting from the floor. She felt a maniacal and lively urge to torment this sweet homicidal merc, who acted for all the world like she was something to protect, something fragile. All her men acted this way, no matter that she could defeat them all in combat, break them like brittle twigs in the depth of winter.

But she resisted, knowing she needed them all if she were to save Mary, Clay included. She had no desire to reach out to the rest of her men. They were remnants of misery, pain, grief. The few she had let Clay contact were enough for her. She held the final threads of her brother's network, his money, and the contacts. Sherlock Holmes hadn't gotten it all.

It had taken all her strength to resist drowning herself in the Thames, or falling on her blade, after that horrible confrontation with Holmes. If Mary hadn't left her the knife, she would be dead- she would have still set off the bomb, and died willingly. Part of her felt like she was already dead. That she was a wraith in truth, a ghost, with no purpose but to live for another's sake.

She breathed for someone else, and it was so strange, so foreign. With James alive and in her life, there had been no need to fear being without purpose or destiny, as they forged it for themselves, and lived their lives as they so choose. She followed his lead, and took jobs as they pleased her. When he died, she lived for vengeance. And after Blackwood burned, she found herself freed from her past, a weight so heavy that when it was lifted, she had no notion how to exist, function.

When she decided not to die, to run free from Blackwood, to stay on the cold shore and not drown- she had struggled to know why. And she kept coming back to Mary. The blonde woman was out there, and Jaime found herself wondering why she wasn't mad at her. She had been, after Mary betrayed her to Sherlock. Violently mad. Yet the anger and betrayal fled, as quickly as night fled before a summer dawn, to be replaced by the epiphany that followed on the heels of the rage. She loved someone, a human being who wasn't James. And she never wanted to lose that feeling.

She sprang to her feet, grabbing her rifle in one hand, startling Clay.

"You remain at my side and free from onerous duties for one reason, Clay." She told him, the poor man flustered when she got in his personal space, weapon under her arm. "Are you certain you want to know?"

"Only if you wish to tell me, ma'am." Always the good soldier, following orders.

"You mourned me." She said plainly, watching as his face flushed beneath his light brown skin, and he ducked his eyes. "The others let me go easily, released from oath and duty. But you? You mourned for me."

"I….." He stammered, unsure how to act. She didn't blame him. This whole feeling lot was so strange. Caring for someone other than James was so new. She loved Mary, very much. But how to be a person worth loving in return? She had no idea. So why not have someone around who felt something for her? To try and learn….. Learn to be more than madness.

"Follow me because you wish to, Clay. No other reason. Teach me how to be human. The one I love is out of reach, and I can't be a monster and deserve her. So teach me, help me. You are a killer, yet you mourned my passing. You don't fall to cruelty, but you are capable of violence. You have balance. Show me how to do that."

"I…" He was unable to gather the thoughts together to respond, so dumbfounded was the poor man.

"Wake me if The Vicar moves on the townhouse." She walked around him, leaving the shell-shocked soldier pondering her words. "I'm going to bed after I wash off the filth. If I'm disturbed for anything less than a glimpse of Mary or a raid, someone's temple is target practice for my blade."

She'd work on being less of a monster after she washed off the sewers of London and slept.

* * *

><p>Mary refused to look up from the mattress, eyes locked on the tiny floral pattern in the blankets. She breathed in and out, slowly, holding it before starting again. The process was so elemental, so easy, that it calmed her nerves faster than any sedative.<p>

John was inches away, his hand on her knee, rubbing. She was doing her best not to cry again, and she held to that resolve as another twinge of pain radiated out from her abdomen. She flinched, and she knew John felt it, as his hand stilled.

"Mary?" He called her name softly, rubbing her knee again. "Tell me what's going on, please."

His voice was always kind, and sure. He never showed nerves or doubt when given someone to help, to care for. It made her heart ache, hearing that in his voice again.

"Cramps. Nausea. Lightheaded." She told him, voice monotone and flat. She couldn't look away from the little flowers on Anthea's sheets. "Can't tell if the last two are a result of me panicking or not."

"Keep breathing through it, make yourself relax as much as you can. I'm not going anywhere, but I need to see Anthea real quick. I'll be right back." She felt him squeeze her knee one last time, before his weight left the mattress.

Mary lowered her head to her knees, and waited. She waited to see if the sick rolling in her stomach would fade, and if her head would stop spinning. The pain was in small waves, tiny twinges that came and went.

She could hear John talking to Anthea at the door, the other woman's dulcet tones full of worry. Mary found herself bemused at how easily the girls had forgiven her after everything she had done the month before. But she figured negotiating for their lives may have had something to do with it.

"She needs to see an obstetrician. I'm not even remotely qualified to help her. I know the basics of childbirth, but she's months away from my comfort zone." John's voice was low, but she could hear him easily. "How the hell do we get her the care she needs?"

"I'll handle it." Anthea said sharply, and Mary could hear her run back down the hall.

She felt someone sit on the bed, the mattress dipping from the weight, and she moved her head, expecting to see John. Instead it was Sherlock, his impossible eyes staring at her. She watched him as he watched her, his eyes jumping all over, evaluating and cataloging everything. She rested her head on the headboard, and found herself calming down just watching him. He didn't even speak to her; he was just there, watching. As if nothing was too personal, too small not to be seen, noticed, worth thinking about.

Mary tensed as another cramp hit, a smaller one, but enough to make her react. Sherlock's eyes flew back to hers, and he tilted his head to the side, observing as she breathed through it. The pain went away, and Mary held his gaze. It was strange, and oddly comforting, being the focus of this man's total concentration. She matched her breathing to his, and he somehow soothed her panic. Most men would be useless right about now, or doing their best to reassure her until she was at the point of committing homicide to get some peace. But all he did was watch and wait, and meet her stare for stare.

Mary was aware that John was back, throwing his newly cleaned jumper on over his head, standing next to the bed and gazing at the two of them. Mary gasped when another cramp hit, and she couldn't stop herself. She reached out, her hand grabbing the strong thin fingered hand of the detective. She gripped, and bit her lip, burying her face in her knees.

"John?" Sherlock sounded worried, but it was most likely due to the fact she was crushing his fingers than concern over her physical condition. Mary eased her grip, and she bit back a sob when he turned his hand over in hers, and gripped back. Sherlock held her hand, and Mary was thankful.

"Here, Sherlock, go get dressed, I'll stay." John told the man holding her hand, and Mary lifted her head just enough to glare at the doctor. He gulped, and raised his hands in surrender. "Or you can stay right here until Mary says you can go."

Mary sighed, and loosened her grip on Sherlock. She gave him a small smile in thanks, and waved her fingers at him to go, if he wanted. He had yet to say a word to her, which for him was a miracle surely, and he got up from the bed. She finally noticed he was nearly naked, just wearing pajama bottoms, the thin fabric of the pants clinging everywhere. Her eyebrows climbed in to her hairline, and she did her best not to blush. He wasn't her type, but he wasn't sore on the eyes either.

Sherlock walked out of the room, passing by Anthea, who had gotten dressed herself, and was speaking quietly on her mobile in the hall. She appeared to be giving instructions, and Mary hoped it was for getting an obstetrician, someone to tell her what was going on with her baby. If it was even her baby that was in trouble. For all she knew, she could be sick with a stomach bug, and would be spending the next few days stuck in bed throwing up everything.

Mary groaned, bending over farther, stomach revolting at just the mere thought of getting sick. She pressed her face to a pillow, and hadn't the strength to object when she felt John sit beside her, hands on her shoulders, rubbing.

"Feel like throwing up?" John said, voice low, sympathy clear. She barely managed a nod, and he got up from the bed, heading for Anthea's bathroom. He was back moments later, and she snuck a peek, to see him holding a small trash bin. He set it down beside the bed closest to her, and Mary pulled herself over to the edge.

She rested there, close enough to the side of the bed she could throw up in the trash bin, and panted softly into the blankets. The lights were on in the room, hurting her eyes at the angle she was laying, and she squinted. She buried her face in the blankets to hide her eyes from the light. John sat beside her again, and Mary let him comfort her, the first time in weeks that she could tolerate him being so close, to be his usual sweet self with her.

It was so surreal. Here she was, pregnant, the father of her child doing his best to comfort her, and it felt so weird. He had removed himself so swiftly from her life, her bed, her heart, that having him back in it in any way other than casual conversations was difficult. He had broken her heart, and the scars were deep. The wounds he laid open in her heart had scarred over, remaking her at a very basic level, as any powerful trauma was wont to do to a person. That's how the previous month felt; traumatic.

"You broke my heart, you know." Mary blurted out, voice muffled by the blankets, but clear enough for him to hear her. His hands stilled, pausing the soothing circles he was rubbing on her shoulders. He halted for only a second, before the rubbing resumed. She really shouldn't have said anything, but she wasn't feeling well, and any topic of conversation was better than dwelling on her horrible worry.

"I noticed. I think the whole of England noticed." John replied, a hint of sadness and mirth in his words. "I am still very sorry for what happened, Mary. I never wanted to hurt you."

"Humph." She scoffed, not letting him see how much that simple apology touched her. Once the anger faded, and she could think, she knew that she would never have been able to compete with Sherlock Holmes. The love John felt for that man was extreme, and beyond what most people were capable. She loved John, or she did before he shattered her happiness. She hadn't been able to get John to love her enough to resist Sherlock, and the effect his Return had on the doctor.

Mary sighed in frustration, and tilted her head slightly to see John's face. He was staring down at her, and his expression was nothing but sincere, and compassionate. He was a far better person than she would ever be, that was for certain.

"I'm sorry." She whispered, knowing as she said them that she could never mean them as much as a normal person would. She was too accustomed to blood and death to ever regret violence, but she could regret the harm she caused a good, decent man. A man who had broken her heart, yes, but he hadn't deserved to be kidnapped, beaten, assaulted, and made to think his friends were dead. _And never forget the whole situation when my new best friend wanted to blow you up along with your boyfriend and herself._

John blinked down at her, and she smiled grimly at him. She wouldn't say the words again. Once was more than enough.

"I know you are. Relax, Mary. Anthea sent for a doctor to help you. I'm sorry I'm not enough, this time. Not my field." John sounded guilty, and it was such a stupid thing for him to be feeling that she slowly moved an arm out to him, and smacked his knee. It was about as effective as a fly bouncing off of him, but it made her point. She glared at him, and he shut up.

* * *

><p>Mycroft dimly heard his mobile buzzing, but as Anthea wasn't knocking at the door, he figured he could ignore the mobile for a few minutes more.<p>

Greg was sleeping again, his chest rising and falling evenly under his head. Mycroft threw a leg over his thigh, being very careful of Greg's injury, and snuggled closer to his lover. Greg shifted, his arm tightening around Mycroft's shoulder, hugging him. Greg turned his head, still mostly asleep, but awake enough to press a kiss to the top of Mycroft's head.

The mobile went off again, chiming from somewhere on the floor. The chime meant someone was calling, instead of texting. Mycroft groaned, and lifted his head. He wanted to show Gregory the rest of his talents, but that damned phone…

"Just answer it, I'm already awake." Greg groaned, shifting urgently. "I need to get up anyway."

Mycroft sighed, and threw off the covers. He got up, looking in the shadows for his trousers. He caught the glow from his mobile, shining through the fabric of the pocket. Digging it out, he saw several texts from Anthea, and one missed call from… His mother.

"What in the world… Oh no." Mycroft groaned, rubbing his face with his hand. "They were just here, what could she possibly want?"

"Who want what?" Greg asked as he pulled on his sweats, gingerly scooting over to the side of the bed. He breathed deep, and slowly stood up. Mycroft went to help, but stopped, holding his breath as Greg struggled to stay upright. The DI's face was white in the low light coming from the tiny lamp in the corner, and he was breathing very shallowly.

"You okay?" Mycroft wanted nothing more to reach over and help him, but Gregory was a proud man, and he knew better to do so unless he asked.

"Never better. Bathroom, be right back. Then you can tell me who's calling you that put that look of fear all over your face." Greg, with infinite care, took one slow step after another towards the door. The only downside of having this sitting room converted into a bedroom was that there was no adjoining bath. The nearest was one of the lower level bathrooms, a few doors down from the room they were in now.

"Should you be walking that far alone?" Mycroft couldn't help himself, especially after Gregory stopped, and clutched at the back of a chair on his way to the door. He went to his DI, and hovered.

"I was well enough to have mind blowing, life altering sex, and you're worried now?" Greg panted, obviously in pain. Mycroft flinched, thinking he surely hadn't helped matters, but Greg surprised him, reaching out, and wrapped a hand around his neck, pulling him close. Mycroft stood still and let Gregory hold on to him.

Mycroft sighed in exasperation as he felt the DI shaking on his feet. If it wasn't for the fact the man obviously needed to use the bathroom, he'd be dragging him back to bed.

"Let me get dressed, then I'll help you." Mycroft let the DI rest against the chair, and he went for his trousers, pulling them on, not worrying about underpants or his belt. He did them up, and was back at Gregory's side in flash.

Mycroft let Greg rope an arm around his neck, thankful he wasn't that much taller than the injured man. He'd like to put an arm around Greg's waist, but the still healing wounds made that awkward. No place to put his hands without hurting something. So he held tight to Greg's wrist, holding his arm tightly over his shoulder, and together they walked to the door.

They got there easily enough, Greg still shaking, tired from walking the fifteen feet to the door. In hindsight, having him in such a large room may not have been such a wise idea, but he'd wanted Gregory to be comfortable. Though he wanted nothing more than to have Gregory not in this room, but in his, in his bed. Those damned stairs were cruel, and would have effectively stranded Gregory upstairs until he was well enough to go up and down them without help. Though that wouldn't be all that bad either, having him in his bedroom all the time…..

He reached for the door, and opened it, waving away the guard stationed outside in the hall. The security guard looked at him, eyes wide, and Mycroft remembered he was dressed only in his trousers, barefoot and shirtless. No one other than his mother when he was a child, and his last lover, had ever seen him this undressed before. This was his house, he could dress however he wished, dammit. He glared, and the guard scuttled off, tossing a flustered look at him one more time before heading down to the bunker.

_Great, just perfect. Rumors abounding with the technicians now. Can't wait to hear the snickering._

"Why was there a guard outside the door?" Greg gasped out, doing his best not to look absolutely tired.

"Because a rude American assassin decided to threaten you." Mycroft told him calmly, leading Greg to the bathroom. "He's got limited time on this earth, don't worry about it."

"Oh, yeah. I sorta recall hearing that. Got distracted since you told me." Greg whispered, and Mycroft fought off the cocky grin he felt encroaching. They were at the bathroom, and Mycroft propped open the door, letting Gregory go in alone. "I'll be few minutes, don't wait for me."

Mycroft went to pull away, but he suddenly found himself in the midst of a deep, toe curling kiss. Greg kissed him, and Mycroft felt every brain cell in his head reboot. He groaned in delight, not expecting this level of affection from the DI displayed out in the open. Admittedly, they were in his house, but his house usually had around thirty people in it at any given time. Greg was so shy, so reticent about acknowledging to other people what they were he treasured this small moment.

He couldn't care about anyone seeing them; all that mattered was that he was kissing the man he loved. He'd never been in love before, and he never wanted to be without it again. Hence the guards.

Greg pulled back, leaving Mycroft to blink at the door as he shut it gently behind him.

There was a faint sound to his right, and Mycroft turned to it. He sighed, seeing his little brother smirking at him from the bottom step of the staircase.

"Don't get involved, brother dear." Sherlock called out, and Mycroft huffed in annoyance at the merriment in his brother's words.

_I'll be hearing those words until we both die of old age…or until I strangle him in his sleep…._

"Careful, brother mine. Mother called, don't make me have her call you next." Mycroft threatened, smirking when Sherlock winced. They loved their mother, they really did, but she was at once devilishly brilliant, and utterly scatterbrained at the same time, making deciphering her words and thoughts difficult at best. And she delighted in embarrassing her two remaining children. Mycroft tilted his head, hearing the water running; Gregory was doing fine.

Mycroft pulled out his mobile, and called his voicemail, ignoring Sherlock as he wandered over. Sherlock stood at his shoulder, correctly surmising he was curious as to what their dear parent wanted. He put it on Speaker, letting Sherlock hear as well. Their mother's voice came out clear from the speakers, and they both listened intently.

"_Mike, it's Mummy…." _He sighed at the nickname, feeling like he was a teenager all over again. He did his best not to react as Sherlock snickered at the endearment. _"Your father and I would love to see you and Sherlock for the holidays next week. We've both decided to stay home this year for Christmas, and New Year's. We haven't had any time together in years during the holidays, do come home."_

They could hear their father's voice in the background, but they couldn't make out what he said. They did hear their mother sigh, and neither man acknowledged how much they sounded just like her in that small sound.

"_And your father says to bring your boyfriends, please. Oh, and….. If she wants to… you may bring Violet, too."_

Mycroft was not expecting to hear that from his parents. They had ignored Violet's existence, more than he the last few weeks since Sherlock revealed who she really was. For their parents to even offer… he didn't know what to make of that. He met his brother's eyes, and Sherlock shrugged.

"Of course we're both going, Sherlock." Mycroft ordered his brother, and he clicked the mobile as the recording ended, slipping it back into his pocket. "How does she know about Gregory?"

"Mike, the whole world knows about your boyfriend." Sherlock grinned at that last word, and Mycroft found himself wishing they were teenagers again, and it was perfectly acceptable for them to tussle about the halls, beating each other senseless. He chose to ignore how many times Sherlock won, figuring that his intellect would outmatch his brother's training. Maybe. "Good Lord, the Americans know about him."

"Don't call me that." Mycroft grumbled, refusing to look at Sherlock as his brother laughed. "Why are you down here, and not with your dear doctor?"

"John is with Mary. She's experiencing some…. Issues."

"Issues?" Mycroft queried, wondering what in the world could be wrong with her…. He breathed in, and cast his up to the stairs, the floor above. She was pregnant. There was much that could happen there, and none of it good. Even he knew that, in his limited experience with the female sex.

"Anthea arranged for an obstetrician to be brought in with Lestrade's physical therapists disguised as an assistant. Their gear will hide his equipment. They'll be here any minute." Sherlock told him.

"Arranging my life and my house. If I didn't know any better, I'd say we were married." Mycroft said, realizing as he did that he was damn near naked, and Sherlock was fully clothed. His brother had most certainly seen the red mark low on his neck, and Mycroft refused to surrender his dignity by letting on he knew that Sherlock saw it.

"You just might be. You should check on that. Don't tell Lestrade, he might object. Or if you're lucky, he won't." Sherlock teased him, and Mycroft was glad the door to the bathroom was shut. He threw Sherlock a warning glance, but his brother just rolled his eyes at him.

"Well, as she's evidently in charge, I just might take the night off." Mycroft mused, thinking of all the things he could do with the very handsome and willing DI. Both of them were rested, and he had nothing pressing that his army of aides in the bunker and Anthea couldn't handle.

Williamson was most assuredly spinning in rage right now, but Mycroft had people watching him, and his people. He would know every move that man made while in London.

"Feel free, we'll most likely get more done without you mucking things up." Sherlock complained, and Mycroft huffed loudly at that assertion. "Though your interference last night with the sniper was well played. We might not have made it out of the catacombs if your man hadn't cleaned up behind us."

Mycroft stilled, pushing away from the cool wall he had been leaning against. He looked at Sherlock, and skewered his little brother with a steely gaze. He hadn't sent a sniper last night. He had been able to nothing but watch on the CCTV feeds, and hope that his brother would make it out of that raid in time. The only coverage of Leinster Gardens was at the intersections, so anything that happened between them was off camera.

"I never sent a sniper. What sniper?" Mycroft demanded.

Sherlock gaped at him, at a loss at his assertion that he hadn't sent them a sniper the night before as they rescued Miss Morstan.

"Tell me what happened last night, now." Mycroft demanded. He had been willing to wait on a debriefing, as Miss Morstan was needing time to recover, and he was gentleman enough to provide her the time to do so. He may not be able to wait on her now.

Sherlock was saved on answering, as the guard was back, hovering at his elbow.

"Sir, the requested medical personnel are here. Let them in?"

Mycroft glared at Sherlock, angry at the interruption. But he was in no state to interrogate Sherlock over what happened, and Miss Morstan needed medical attention.

"Yes. Search them thoroughly, verify identities, and let them be about their business." Mycroft waited for the guard to leave down the hall, and he rounded back on his brother. "You tell me everything once I've gotten Gregory settled, and Miss Morstan has been attended to. Everything."

* * *

><p>Mary waited with John, dozing as best she could, having thrown up several times already. He had yet to complain, merely held the trash for her as she emptied her stomach. She hadn't eaten anything in over twenty four hours, so she was dry heaving by the end of the fit. John tried to get her to drink some water, and she managed a few sips between bouts of nausea.<p>

"John?" Anthea whispered from the doorway. "He's here, they're bringing up the equipment now."

"Good." John exhaled loudly, and Mary struggled to move enough so she could see the doorway.

Mary tried to understand what was going on, but she was cold, and so very tired. The cramps had eased, but the nausea would subside only long enough for her to start to relax before crashing back through her body.

"Just relax Mary." John murmured, and Mary let her eyes drift shut. "We'll get you sorted, don't worry."

Mary felt herself floating, only distantly aware of what was going on. There were voices around her, and she knew John's, his smooth voice reassuring. There was a different voice, and this one she didn't know. A man, quiet and unassuming and older, by the tone of his voice, but a stranger still.

"I take it this poor girl is my patient?" Came that soft voice, and Mary stiffened as a shadow fell over her face.

"Yes. Pregnant. Severe nausea, moderate cramping, dizziness and dehydration. She's been vomiting for the last hour."

"How far along is she?" Asked that new voice. Mary startled as she felt a hand touch her wrist, take her pulse. She fought to open her eyes, but couldn't. All she could do was try and pull away, her attempt feeble. "Not long, by how slim she is yet."

"Nine to ten weeks. Maybe eleven at most." John answered. "Her name is….."

"No names, please. I'll just call her Dear." The soft voice ordered gently. "This is not the first time I've been summoned to help a pregnant woman in clandestine conditions."

"Oh. Well, that's good." John said, and even Mary could tell he was flustered. "I think."

"I take it she wants the child?"

"Yes." John was sure, and he was beyond confident is his reply.

"Ahhh. You're the father then."

"Yes, I am." John said. "And a GP too."

"This will be much easier for her then." The soft voice reached down for her, and Mary was lifted to lay flat on the bed, hands adjusting her, moving her around. She knew John's hands, so she didn't fight. "Don't worry dear, you'll be feeling better soon."

Mary couldn't hear much else, as she slipped further away. She was so cold, and she couldn't summon the strength to shiver. She floated, and not even when she felt a sharp needle pierce her arm at the elbow did she fight. Mary knew John was there, and no matter the pain and betrayal between them, John would never hurt her.

So she let the voices and hands tend to her, trusting in John to keep her safe, their child safe. She floated in that cold place for a long time, and she came back slowly. That cold hollow feeling inside was fading, and the nausea was just a mere memory of what it had been. She could hear that stranger speaking, his words clear one moment, the next far away and vague.

"Saline IV…. Dehydrated…She hasn't bled. Not a miscarriage."

"Thank God."

"My diagnosis is hyperemesis gravidarum. Severe morning sickness. The cramping is not uncommon for the first trimester, merely aggravated by recent activities and stress. She is in remarkable shape, so that helps. Let her rest for a few days, and manage the morning sickness as I've instructed."

"Of course. Thank you."

"I believe her to be around eleven weeks, and I must encourage you to have her eat more. She is far too small at this stage. She doesn't need to gain weight, she's perfectly fine, but the child needs more. She's obviously in prime shape, but she's burning off calories that the baby needs. She can still exercise, just have her cut it down."

"I usually tell this to my patients directly, but as she's resting, and you're the father, I'm certain she'll be fine. I'll come back when she wants that ultrasound."

"Thank you again." John's voice faded away, and there was the sound of a door opening and closing, footsteps trailing away into silence.

Mary woke slowly, her eyes adjusting to the low light in the room. It was dark out, the moon high in the sky, not yet full, its silver light streaming in through the windows. It would be full in a few days, sometime around Christmas next week.

_Christmas. By this time next year my child will already be six months old, give or take a few weeks. Will I be there to see her?_

Mary could hear footsteps in the hall, through the shut door. There were many, and voices raised. She could hear Sherlock, not yelling, but speaking rapidly, and Mycroft too. John was nearly shouting. She shifted on the bed, turning to see the door. The IV in her arm tugged just a little, but she was able to ignore it, focusing instead on the shadows of the men outside in the hall, visible through the crack under the door.

"You are not going anywhere near her right now." John was shouting now, his words muffled by the door but clear enough. "She needs rest. NO."

"Dr Watson, she was the only one who saw the sniper….."

"I don't care who you are, whose brother you are, and I don't care if you're shagging one of my best mates- I SAID NO!"

Mary jumped a bit herself, hearing some of Captain Watson come out in John's voice. Usually so easy going, so sweet and calm, but he could be tough as steel when he needed to be. She was grateful for him now, because she needed the time to determine what to tell them.

"She said she saw a sniper on the roof, shooting at the CIA. She never saw who it was. We didn't either. Whoever it was defended us through the tunnels, saving our lives. The only people we saw were the CIA officers trying to kill us. It's entirely possible that the sniper died protecting us, as we were ambushed by two men, one of which John killed, and Mary the other."

Sherlock. Brilliant, and usually so right. Wrong this once, but his guess would give her the cover she needed for now. Until she decided whether or not to reveal to Sherlock that Jaime Moriarty lived.

* * *

><p>Violet sat beside Greg on the couch in his room, as the therapist and her assistant packed up their gear. Violet had been wandering around for a while, as Sherlock and Mycroft were arguing with John, and Mary was passed out sleeping after the obstetrician's visit. Anthea was upstairs with Mycroft, who was foolishly trying to get John to let him talk to Mary. John was stubborn when it counted, and she was betting he wouldn't budge.<p>

"Mycroft mention anything else?" Violet asked Greg as the guards escorted the medical types from the room.

"Nope. Just that his parents want us all- you included- to come visit for the holidays." Greg said, leaning back on the couch, obviously tired out of his mind. She had come in at the tail end of the therapy session, and hell, she was tired just watching. She figured she was being rude at the time, but couldn't work up the effort to feel bad about it.

"That won't be awkward at all." Violet said dryly, copying his pose. She stared at the ceiling, and pondered why the Brits made the ceilings as pretty as the walls. No one ever looked at the ceiling, why do that?

"Oh yeah, looking forward to it. I guess I've got no choice in the matter, I can't exactly escape in my current condition."

"I can break you out if you want, I'm good at it." Violet offered jokingly. The odds of Greg Lestrade going anywhere without Mycroft were nonexistent.

"Um, no. I'm tempted, but I'll not do that to him."

"He's lucky. Not many people can handle him. Don't know what that says about you." Violet turned her head to toss Greg a wink, and she laughed out loud at the blush creeping across his cheeks.

"Shush, you. Don't you have something to be doing, other than harassing a middle aged injured man?" Greg groaned as he stretched, propping his feet up on the coffee table.

"You're not old, don't start that pity train." Violet jumped to her feet, startling Greg. She smiled at him, and figured she shouldn't waste everyone's preoccupation right now. "Anyone asks, don't tell them I'm committing international cyber-crimes in the bunker."

"What? Lord, don't tell me that!" Greg got a pained look on his face, and she skipped out of his room, waving over her shoulder as she left.

Violet checked the hall, and winked at the guard stationed outside Greg's room. Her uncle was serious about keeping his new boyfriend safe. She wondered how long that would last, as Greg might not object to being watched while recovering, but he wasn't going to spend the rest of his life hiding. Man was a cop; he needed to be out doing his job.

Violet grinned as the guard shifted on his feet, doing his best not to look her up and down as she sauntered past him, heading for the bunker. She had no worries that anyone would try and stop her- act like you belong, then no one questions you.

Violet opened the bunker door, and headed for the nearest computer station. There was an aide working but she could handle him. He looked up as she approached, and he got that nervous expression all the aides had around her. They knew who she was, but they had no idea how to act around her one bit, or what to do about her. No one wanted to mess with the Boss's niece.

"Hey guess what." She leaned hard on her American accent, and she suddenly wished she had some gum to pop. Anything to increase the sheer amount of discomfort for this very British government man. The more flustered he was, the easier to manage.

"Ummm…. Oh-kay… What?" He stuttered.

"You're in my seat." Violet came around the desk, and shooed him from the chair. He stood slowly, looking back between her and the computers. "Buh-bye."

"Go on, go take a break or hit on that cute redhead over in the corner, the one at the CCTV feeds. She looks lonely." Violet sat in the chair, and turned to the systems in front of her. She wondered how long she'd have before Mycroft came down to complain. The aide hesitated, and she sent him a glare, the one John called the 'Holmes death look'.

The aide wandered away, and Violet turned her attention to the computers. She delved into the MI6 systems, and opened up a direct line to her personal servers, hidden so carefully in the ether of the Internet.

Violet closed off the station she was on, restricting all access to it from any other station, and from the system as a whole, the only communication allowed to her servers. She blacked out the screens above her head, doing her work on the actual monitors on the desk. She leaned back in her chair, plopped her bare feet on the desk, and put the keyboard on her legs. Violet pulled her own programs off her megaserver, and adapted them to the MI6 systems.

She paused for just a second, and found her playlists, queuing up some hard rock from the eighties. Hair-band chaos started pouring out over the sound system in the bunker, and she could hear the techs whispering loudly amongst themselves from the other stations. They really needed to loosen up. She turned the music up when she caught a nasty look from the aide she'd kicked out of the station she was using, her toes moving to the beat.

She was breaking about a dozen laws with every keystroke, but she figured Mycroft had the clout to cover for her, even if she were careless enough to leave traces behind. Her programs were designed to identify, track, and even predict the flow of money from transactions across the globe. She didn't care for the average banker's transfers either; she was after the 'off the books' and _sub_ _rosa_ money transfers that government agencies across the globe used to bribe each other, pay for ops, and seed bad deeds. If anyone of those shadow agencies out there knew she could do that, she doubted that even her uncles would be able to keep her safe from the collective spook wrath she would incur.

Silas Williamson had been paid a ton of money to abduct her three months ago, and for a year prior to that, she had been under intense scrutiny from the CIA and Interpol. She was used to being watched, what she did made that inevitable. But that didn't mean she had to accept living in fear. She wasn't a quarry to be hunted, bought and sold- she was no one's purchase. If she could find the transfer used to pay Williamson, she could backtrack it to the person responsible for hunting her.

Violet had a strong suspicion that the man that had tried to kill her at the flat wasn't someone trying to get Sherlock to stop investigating the nursery murders. She figured it was an attempt to kidnap her. Someone out there knew where she was, knew who and what she was past the Holmes' niece thing, and that someone was here in London. And the attempt to get her had gone horribly wrong, even for something as horrid as a kidnapping.

If Mycroft wouldn't hand her over (she hadn't expected him too, but she knew better than to assume anything with him), then she must find out a way to get the bounty off her head. And the best way to do that would be to find out who wanted her.

Someone out there had spent a large amount of money trying to get the CIA's favorite headhunter to grab her. Violet Hunter was prepared to do anything to find out who. And once she knew, she wasn't going to do a thing herself. All she needed to do was tell her uncles.

Violet continued to rewrite code, and if Sherlock or Mycroft had seen her face at that moment they would have seen a shadow of her father. The thought of Mycroft and Sherlock confronting the colossal idiot who thought he could touch a Holmes and live to tell about it put a small smile on her face, and her eyes were as hard as the gems they resembled.

Violet finished her quick rewrites, and opened her station back up to the wider systems. She blocked out access to what she was doing, and she put her toughest encryption in place to prevent anyone from snooping. No one, not even Mycroft's or the CIA's best people, could break her encryption, or learn her password. She had dozens, but there was one password that opened all 'doors'. It was her master key, the God-mode of all bad ass passwords.

The trackers weren't the only programs she installed on the MI6 servers, deep in the systems. She put in there her very special program to hide in wait, ready in an instant if she needed it, a program guaranteed to put her head on a platter around the globe. But she wasn't worried; it was hers to command, and any attempt to hack it, bypass it, or to control it without her master key would result in the program erasing itself from the cosmos, and destroying whatever system it was in, and the system attempting to control it.

The program she hid was not meant to be destructive, it had another purpose entirely. It would only destroy if someone was foolish enough to try and control it. And try fools would, which is why it was hidden. She very rarely used this program, considering the potential for mayhem it contained. The world wasn't ready for her to set this beast free.

This was the work that would give her the label of cyber terrorist, of criminal. She held the program in reserve, and let it sleep in the systems, a dormant dragon. She may not need it; but it was there if she did.

She paused the music still blaring out over the sound system, and contemplated her decision. She would go forward, and let Fate react as it wished.

Violet sat back, and double-checked her work, whistling that tune by Bach that Sherlock had played for her all those years ago. All of her programs were ready, including the nasty beast hiding under all the rest. She reached out, letting her finger hover over the Enter key. Violet stopped whistling, smiled, and hit the key.

The words _**FIAT LUX**_ flashed on the monitor. The screens above her winked back on, the letters V and H scrolling across the screens. She now owned this station, and locked it for her personal use. Violet laced her fingers together in her lap, and waited for Mycroft to come yell at her.

She reached out, and started the music again, toes moving in time with the beat.

* * *

><p>Mycroft glared at John, as that worthy stood in front of the door behind which Miss Morstan was resting. His arms were crossed, and his eyes contained that hard edge to them that Mycroft had seen years ago when he arranged to meet John for the first time in a damp warehouse.<p>

"No, Mycroft! Let her sleep. Anyone makes a move towards her, it's going to get ugly."

"Now see here….." Mycroft was interrupted by a soft cough down the hall.

Mycroft, Sherlock and John all turned to see Anthea, who was doing such an admirable impression of a displeased mother that each one of them shifted uncomfortably on their feet.

"I could have sworn the three of you were gentlemen." Anthea stated archly. Her vivid green eyes were sharp and she pierced each one of them directly. She exuded an air of total contempt, and Mycroft suddenly flashed back to when his mother caught him sharing cigarettes with Sherlock when they were kids. "There is a sick pregnant woman behind that door trying to rest, and the three of you are yelling and carrying on like barbarians. Utterly despicable."

John opened his mouth to say something, but he snapped it shut when she leveled her sternest gaze on him. Sherlock was slowly edging away, and Mycroft was aghast as his brother damn near hid behind him.

"Supper is ready in the dining room. Move it, now." Anthea ordered, and Mycroft found himself moving along towards the staircase, no idea how she managed to cow him into submission. John and Sherlock trudged along with him, and Mycroft pretended not see the nasty looks the doctor was throwing his way.

Anthea followed along sedately, and none of them dared argue as they went down the stairs.

_I really ought to see if I married her at some point and totally forgot about it…._

* * *

><p>Anthea left the men eating quietly in the dining room, each one of them properly chastened, at least for now. Anthea had yet to see Violet, not since John had first tended to Mary. That was a few hours now, and Anthea knew she hadn't left the townhouse. There was one place she knew for certain that she would be, especially since no one was watching her.<p>

Anthea walked down the hall to the bunker, pausing outside the open door to Gregory's room. The DI was sleeping, passed out on the couch. Anthea reached out, and quietly closed his door. She addressed the guard outside in the hall.

"Please have DI Lestrade's dinner brought to him in his room. Give it a few minutes, let him sleep a while longer." He nodded to her, and she continued on to the bunker.

When she finally got in the bunker, she saw a dozen technicians and aides all clustered to the far side of the room, the lot of them tossing looks of suspicion and nerves to the lovely young woman at the computer station nearest to the door. Music of some kind was playing loudly, bouncing off the walls of the great room. She guessed rock music from America, older than what she usually listened to. She just watched, perusing the screens above the desk, the vibrant green letters V and H hovering and twirling against a black backdrop.

Violet was sitting calmly at the desk, feet propped up on the edge, pink painted toenails bright in the grey of the room. She wasn't typing, merely watching as lines of code flew by at impossible speeds on the monitors in front of her. Anthea saw the briefest flashes of actual words popping up here and there, but she couldn't make them out.

Suddenly the volume of the music dropped, and Anthea could hear herself think.

"I was expecting Mycroft, but you'll do. Saw you scold the boys on the cameras." Violet called out, and she pulled her mobile out of her pocket, waving it at her. She probably hacked the security feeds for the house. "What's for supper?"

"Oh, Vie, what did you do?" Anthea moved slowly to the station, unsure of what, exactly, Violet was doing, but whatever it was, her uncle was not going to be happy.

"I'm hunting for the asshole who paid Williamson the bounty for me." Violet stated calmly, her face even and flawless, amethyst eyes glittering. "I'm searching the entire world, farthest reaches out first, then cycling back to London last. I'm searching through every transaction made by all government agencies and spook shadowy groups around the planet that use wire transfer, and not hard cash."

"And how are you doing that?" Anthea found herself asking against all her better judgment. What Violet was describing was impossible. No one could do all that.

"I hacked the Internet." Violet offered up. She had a tiny smile lifting the corner of her mouth just the tiniest amount. "Well, not really the 'Internet', more like the whole planet. Good thing MI6 has their fingers in a lot of people's fucking business, it's making things go faster. Though if I was at the Pentagon, this would be over already."

"Oh dear."

"Yeah, you might wanna tell Mycroft his Netflixing might be slow tonight, I'm kinda hogging the Internet."

* * *

><p>Mary slept as best she could, finally removing the IV after the bag was nearly empty. She was expecting to see John come back anytime, to do what she just did herself. She curled on her side facing the window, trying to muster the desire to get up and use the bathroom. She was tired, but sleep was eluding her. She watched the horizon past the buildings lighten up, dawn far off yet, but the grey skies brightening all the same.<p>

Anthea's room was lovely, but she couldn't stay in the poor girl's room the whole time she was here. She had no idea where she and Violet had slept last night, but she did hear John and Sherlock go to bed next door around midnight.

_Tell Sherlock, don't tell him….. Would he keep this secret? He wouldn't, not from John….. I can't tell them that Jaime lives. Not even if it meant that I would probably be able to buy sanctuary from MI6 and the government if I told them Jaime was alive. I won't do that to her. I can't._

_She saved me, she saved us….. She didn't have to. She could have let us all die, or killed us herself. She would have been able to do it, at any point last night. But she didn't._

_She loves me….. I love her too. Oh Jaime, what do I do?_

_Am I a guest, or a prisoner?_

She heard the sound of movement coming from next door, and she figured John was awake. He would come over soon, to check on her. She cautiously sat up, and when she didn't immediately throw up, went to the restroom. She washed as best she could, found a spare toothbrush under the sink, and borrowed Anthea's hairbrush.

Mary caught her reflection in the mirror, seeing herself for the first time in weeks. She was pale, with dark circles under her eyes. Her hair was longer, and soon she would either have to cut it back, or let it grow out. It had been a long time since she let it grow out, nearly six years now. She had cut it short after she faked her death, mourning the blonde, shiny tresses as she changed her appearance.

Mary found her black bag, and put on the change of clothing she'd packed. That was another worry, but one she figured could wait. Needing clothing.

She put her bag under the bed, and checked to see if the nine mil was still under her pillow. It was, and she sighed in relief. One less worry to carry right now; she wasn't planning on using it, but being defenseless was not an option for her.

Mary sat cross legged on the bed, and watched dawn break over the frozen garden. She tugged the comforter over her shoulders, huddling under the thick fabric. It was snowing, small flakes falling, catching the golden rays, flashing brightly before she lost sight of them from where she sat. The sky overhead was dull and cloudy, but in the east, the sky was clear, and she could see the sun rise.

* * *

><p>Sherlock grabbed John's wrist as the doctor tried to slip from bed without waking him. He had been awake now for hours, thinking. John slept heavily, and Sherlock found himself pondering how his doctor could sleep so much. Sherlock had slept more in the months since his return than he had in the years before he Fell. It was John's influence, and the fact that it was very easy to fall asleep after an orgasm.<p>

"You're up early." John whispered to him, thumb rubbing at the inside of his wrist.

"Hmmm. Sleeping is boring. Thinking isn't."

"Maybe for you, but some of us actually enjoy sleeping."

"I enjoy other things besides sleeping." Sherlock tugged, and John toppled on top of him. He caught John tight to his chest, and rolled his doctor under him.

Sherlock stopped John's protests with his mouth, humming in delight as he slid his tongue deep, tasting John. His doctor groaned, and wrapped his legs around Sherlock's thighs, rolling his hips eagerly.

Sherlock ripped the sheets away, tossing the blankets askew. He wanted nothing between him and John, not even air. John was kissing him back just as madly, and Sherlock found himself laughing between tongue strokes. John smiled under his kiss, and moved his hips again, rubbing his hardening cock on Sherlock's.

Sherlock groaned loudly, as heat built up under his skin, charges zipping along his nerves. He licked and bit down John's neck, to his shoulder, the taste of John on his tongue familiar and new all at once. Salty and sweet and he couldn't get enough. Sherlock licked at the scar on his doctor's shoulder, the bullet wound a favorite place of his, before returning to kissing and licking his way down John's chest.

John was gasping, chest rising fast with his frenzied breathing. His hands found their way to Sherlock's hair, and threaded through his curls. Sherlock could feel the hard cock pressing against his chest, and pushed down with his torso, spreading John's legs as he laid open mouthed wet kisses down the other man's stomach. He grinned against the smooth muscles of John's stomach when his doctor writhed under him.

Sherlock pulled back enough to move all the way down, until he was laying between John's legs, lips gently brushing over the throbbing cock in front of him. He put his hands under the doctor's thighs, and touched his cock with lips and tongue. John jumped, moaning, as he wrapped his tongue around the throbbing head. It was hot, and so big, and Sherlock fought back the urge to suck the whole of John into his mouth. He wanted to take his time, torment his lover before letting them both find release.

Sherlock pulled the head into his mouth, and sucked once, hard. John gasped and cried out, his hands pulling at Sherlock's hair. He was whispering to Sherlock as he arched his back, trying to push his cock deeper in his mouth. He was whispering dirty things, things he wanted to do to Sherlock, things he wanted Sherlock to do to him. Sherlock held him down, gripping his thighs, refusing to let John move things along. He kept the broad head in his mouth, and opened his jaw, sliding the tip of his tongue down the underside of the hard cock throbbing madly in his mouth. John groaned, a sound that fell apart and became a desperate gasp for air.

John was begging him now, begging him to swallow him whole, pulling on his hair, his hips thrusting upwards. Sherlock pulled his tongue back, as slowly as he had slid it down the shaft. John jumped, and he did it again. Slow and torturous.

Sherlock pulled back, and John cried out, begging him not to stop. Sherlock waited, until John lifted his head from the mattress to see what his lover was doing. Sherlock met his eyes, and swallowed him whole. John's eyes flew wide, and he watched, captivated, as Sherlock deep throated him, sucking and swallowing around his thick shaft. John jumped each time Sherlock moved his jaw, nearly hyperventilating from what he was experiencing. John arched hard on the mattress, eyes squeezed shut, a keening cry escaping from behind his teeth.

Sherlock was thoroughly enjoying himself, and he was filled with an intense satisfaction that made the lust and passion burn hotter in his gut. He pulled back, John's cock harder and bigger, glistening in the early morning light.

"John." His voice was raspy, deep with lust.

His doctor looked at him, sweat pouring down his temples, body shaking everywhere.

"Tell me what you want." Sherlock demanded. "Tell me what you want from me."

John's hands gripped his hair tightly for the briefest of seconds, and Sherlock shivered at the primal look that overcame his doctor's usually gentle face.

"On your knees." John ordered, and he pulled Sherlock up by his head, a savage kiss crashing on Sherlock's lips.

This time the atmosphere between them was different, more urgent, and ruthless. John pushed and tugged, until Sherlock was kneeling on the mattress, John behind him. John put a strong hand on his back, and pushed him down, until his chest was on the bed, bent fully over his knees. His doctor's hands gripped his hips, massaging and rubbing as they moved to his ass. Sherlock shivered, hands clutching at the sheets.

John left him there for a heartbeat, and Sherlock did his best not to laugh in excitement as he heard the drawers of the nightstand opening and slamming, with John cursing until he found the lubricant. Anthea wasn't kidding about the rooms being fully stocked.

John returned to him, his hips flush to Sherlock's rear, and his rapid breathing was loud in the room. Sherlock groaned eagerly as John rubbed his cock over the cleft of his ass, the heated length making his muscles clutch instinctively, anticipating what was coming. The lubricant was cold, but quickly warmed, dripping as John damn near poured it over him.

The bottle was tossed away, and Sherlock laughed as he saw it hit the mattress near his head. He laughed right up until John plunged his hard length inside him, his laughter turning to a gasping moan of shock and roiling, fiery, total surrender.

John throbbed inside him, stretching him wide. John hadn't prepared him, and he would feel the consequences of that later, but the only thing he could focus on was the hard heat buried deep. John was breathing fast, hands rubbing at Sherlock's hips restlessly, and he began to pull back, making Sherlock cry out as he did. John was so big, too big, and Sherlock's body was struggling to adapt. He loved every second of the torture, fighting the urge to thrust back on John as he pulled away. He thrust in, and Sherlock moaned at the tight fit.

John's thrusts grew frenzied, and Sherlock let go, giving in to the raging fires under his skin. He feel away thought by thought, every cell of his body screaming John's name, impossible to separate the man from the need. John was insane, plunging harder, deeper, his fingers digging deep into the muscles of Sherlock's hips. His breathing was erratic, sweat running from them both, slicking skin and making everything hotter.

Sherlock saw a wave of white flame roll over him, his eyes burning from the power of the orgasm building deep inside of him. John was crying out with each thrust, his rhythm abandoned. Soon, so very soon, Sherlock rode the slow wave as it crested, and he screamed into the mattress, his body clenching around John as the other man plunged faster. Sherlock came so hard he felt his orgasm ride the nerves down his legs, his toes curling, his fingers digging into the sheets so much they ripped.

John cried out, the sound strangled as his body forgot how to breathe. Sherlock's orgasm tripped John over the edge, and he came, jerking and quivering behind his lover, pumping deep, great gushing bursts of wet heat. Sherlock pushed back hard, imbedding John as deeply as he could reach, and John collapsed on his back. The weight of his doctor made him jump and shake in response, sweat everywhere, muscles shivering, and his skin so sensitive that John's breath on his neck made him want to cry.

Sherlock came to reality, thinking he must have passed out, as John had fallen from his back, and was laying along his side, curling into him. His legs had straightened out beneath him, and he grimaced, feeling the damp sheets under his hips. He grabbed at John, using the man to pull himself off the wet spot, and he dropped on John's chest, that one movement too much to handle.

John raised a hand, and ran it through the damp, sweaty curls on his lover's head. Sherlock fell asleep with John petting him, and he was never more content.

* * *

><p>Sherlock picked up his mobile, flipping through his messages as John went to check on Mary. He had heard it go off as they were showering. Sherlock was feeling the strain of living under his brother's roof, thinking it was time for him to get out and go home while Mycroft was occupied with Lestrade, and watching Williamson. The CIA officer was quiet, having done nothing since the failed attempt to capture Mary. Sherlock was certain he was evaluating his options.<p>

**Murder and missing child. Possible kidnapping by father, mother deceased on scene. Urgent. DI Dimmock has the case, but I can meet you there. Please come. –SD**

**Send me the address. –SH**

Sherlock grabbed his coat, and walked out to the hall, just as John left Mary's room, shutting the door behind him.

Sherlock checked his mobile, and memorized the address Donovan sent him.

"Let's go John." Sherlock told his doctor, swirling his coat over his shoulders, putting on his scarf. He took off down the hall, impatient to be doing something more than sleeping. The sex was worth staying in bed for, but for some reason John wasn't comfortable having sex all day in Mycroft's house.

"What? Where to?" John hurried to catch up to him, having run back in the guest room for his coat.

"I have a case. Murder, mayhem, missing child." Sherlock was nearly running down the stairs, to the front of the house. He ignored the guards at the doors, walking past them, stepping out in the cold winter air. It was snowing, but lightly, the flakes small and melting as soon as they hit the cobblestones.

Sherlock flagged a cab, knowing he'd have a few minutes before Mycroft's people pulled together enough courage before they disturbed his brother.

"Should we be leaving? What about Williamson?" John hopped in after him, and Sherlock gave the cabbie the address. "Hasn't he threatened to kill us all?"

"Mycroft is watching him." Sherlock could care less in that instant about the CIA officer and his threats. The American had nothing on his brother. The cab pulled away, and Sherlock looked over his shoulder, seeing a black town car pull out from the alley next to his brother's house. Anthea must have been waiting for him to do something like this, having a car ready to follow if they left. "Don't worry, we have babysitters tagging along."

"Oh I feel tons better now."

* * *

><p>"My lady…. I mean, ma'am." Clay called softly from the door to her room. Jaime slipped from bed, and opened the door wider, her expression saying it had better be important.<p>

"Holmes and Dr Watson have left the townhouse, not two minutes ago." Clay told her, his stance nervous.

"Mary?" Jaime asked, turning from the door, and reaching for her clothing. She got dressed, oblivious to Clay's presence. She threw on her black gear, but left off the vest, shrugging into her long coat over the tight black clothing. Her combat boots were stylish enough not to attract attention.

"No sign of her. I believe she's still in there."

"John wouldn't leave her if she was in trouble. Where are they heading?" Jaime asked, brushing past Clay, heading for the front room and her weapons. She left the rifle for two nine mils and several magazines, all of it easily hidden under her long coat.

"We have a man following. Mycroft Holmes also has someone following his brother and the doctor." Clay hesitated, and seemed to make up his mind about something. "The CIA are also following the two of them."

"Tell our man to stay out of sight. Get ready to move, civilian cover." Jaime ordered Clay, and he jumped to obey. The Vicar was moving against the men keeping Mary safe. If Sherlock was under sufficient threat, Mary would not be safe with Mycroft Holmes. The elder would have no choice but to turn her over to the US government at his master's decree, or he would lock her away forever out of spite. "Have our man text the address of where they go, I want us to be there as soon as possible."

"Yes, ma'am!"

* * *

><p>Silas Williamson picked up his mobile, and saw the text from his technicians. Holmes the younger and the pervert's lover had left the older brother's house. His people were following. He sent a text back, knowing that once he did this, it was one short step away from starting a war. He couldn't wait to see who would win. Mycroft Holmes thought he was so sly, sending a sniper after his team. He would pay, and his brother had just made a colossal mistake.<p>

**Tell the men they have a kill order. Wait for maximum witnesses. – The Vicar**


	45. One Last Song

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**WARNING: VIOLENCE. And some fluffy scenes, of course. But seriously, Violence!**

**A/N: Lots of love to all of my reviewers, readers and followers. The encouragement I get from all of you keep me going. I set myself a huge task, and sometimes I wonder if it's worth it. Then I read the reviews, read the PM's, and I know it is. So here is one of my favorite chapters I have written yet.**

**Read, enjoy, review.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Forty Five<strong>

"_**One Last Song"**_

Sherlock left the cab so fast he slid on the cobblestones, tossing some money at the cabbie as he made for the police tape. The house was large, three stories, and the front garden was overflowing with dormant plots and topiary. The street out front was crowded with police cars, neighbors outside their own homes, and people were gathering on either side of the house.

Ambulances were parked beside the police cars, shut off and dark. That meant there was a corpse inside the house, no one living who needed help. Sherlock lifted the tape, John sneaking under with him at the last second. He paused on the sidewalk, taking his time, eyes flowing over every surface. He watched the people standing outside on the street, saw which ones were neighbors, and which ones just stopped to see what the fuss was about.

Sherlock saw police talking to a brunette woman, late forties, distraught. She was standing with a man, slightly older, who was pale, doing nothing but keeping a hand on the woman's shoulder as she cried. Sherlock saw the blood on her sleeve from where he stood, and the blood on the heel of her very expensive leather shoes. Sherlock squinted at the duo, before angling his head to scan the cars parked on the street. He saw what he wanted, and went back to watching the house.

_She doesn't live here, wearing a coat, and so is he. Luxury car parked out front match the price ranges exhibited in the clothing. Came to see the residents. She found the body. Relative?_

Sherlock saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and recognized Sally Donovan as she walked up to them on the sidewalk. He didn't acknowledge her, too focused on the crime scene to care much for pleasantries. John murmured a good morning to the sergeant, and the two talked quietly as Sherlock finished his external examination of the house.

"You said there was a possible kidnapping?" Sherlock spoke out of the blue, making John jump, and Donovan nodded.

"DI Dimmock already sent out the alerts, media has the story. Father is missing, mother dead inside. The couple's child, a five year old boy, Victor Carruthers, is missing as well. Prevailing theory is that it was a domestic dispute, father kills mother. Takes the boy. We have the area shut down, but considering the time gap between when this all happened and when we finally closed down the area, I expect them to be long outside the radius."

Sherlock walked up the front path to the door, cutting through forensic techs and police officers. The coroner was on site, an empty stretcher with a black body bag outside the front doors. People moved out of his way, and he spared them all less than a thought, eyes cataloging and evaluating everything. John followed him, and Sherlock could hear the click of Donovan's heels on the stone pavers.

He entered the front foyer, pausing next to the door, running his gloved hand down the doorjamb, feeling nothing amiss from the heavy whitewashed oak. The handle and dead bolt looked fine, nothing beyond normal wear.

He heard whispering, people staring at him in the front sitting room just off the foyer. He saw the bright jackets of more police, and the blue jumpsuits of techs. Sherlock stepped further in the house, noting the pictures on the walls, the overabundance of family cheer smiling back at him from nearly every portrait. There was a small round table in the foyer, covered in framed photos. A thin young man, late twenties or early thirties sitting with a young woman, mid-twenties, and between them on the settee was a small boy, four years approximate.

Sherlock heard a familiar voice, but paid no heed to DI Dimmock as the inspector came out from the rear of the house. Sherlock walked away, heading down the hall, towards what he was correctly assuming was the kitchen. Dimmock huffed in annoyance, and Sherlock detected a shred of bitterness in his voice as he greeted Donovan.

_She was given Lestrade's desk, his job while he's on medical leave. Dimmock is most displeased. A mere sergeant getting the spotlight over an inspector._

Sherlock entered the kitchen, a homey, large space with a table set for breakfast. Bowls and plates emptied of oatmeal and eggs, toast, breakfast finished, family migrated to another room once they were done. Three place settings. Three people eating breakfast together, happily too.

There were two large bowls on the floor along the wall by the table, and the kibble in one of them made it apparent there was a dog here somewhere. Sherlock looked up from his musings, but he hadn't seen or heard the presence of a dog since he entered. Where was the animal?

_Father murders wife and kidnaps his son, takes the time to bring the dog? Big dog too, by the size of the bowls. Leash is still on the hook over the bowls. Dog is still here, but where?_

Sherlock could see through the large kitchen windows into the back garden, a far larger space than the front. He went to the window over the sink, and stared out. The snow was falling still, patches of it struggling to stay on the dead grass, most of it melting away under the sporadic morning sunlight. It was a degree or two above freezing, the air getting colder.

The back garden was large, and terraced, six different levels dropping down the hillside, about fifty yards in total from the rear of the house to the back fence line. Trees and shrubs and hedges lined varying levels, some obscured from view, and others open, plainly home to flowers in the height of spring.

Sherlock turned from the window, and wandered off, taking a hall to the other side of the house. Pictures lined every available space, the happiness coming out from them obvious and appalling, too cheerful for Sherlock to comprehend. Domestic bliss at this level was outside of his experience.

The rear hall opened up into a large family room, two large armchairs and two old battered couches that looked remarkably comfortable despite their state. Thick blankets were draped over the back of every chair and couch, ready in the cold weather to warm someone up.

The furniture was at odds with the upscale feel of the house, and Sherlock saw why when he gently tapped a child's toy with his foot. Toys were everywhere, the floor overrun with the beloved objects of a young boy. Dog toys clustered amongst them, nearly indistinguishable at first glance from each other. The nice furniture was kept in the front, where visitors would be; here was the family room, where they played and lived.

_The boy and his dog share toys. Inseparable._

There was a music stand beside the fireplace, sheets strewn over the floor, a beautiful and well-tended violin resting in the armchair next to the stand. Sherlock's fingers twitched at the sight of the high quality instrument, and he had to pull his gaze away. The rug in front of the hearth was as old as the furniture, but deep and warm looking. The rug was wrinkled, as if someone had pushed at it with a foot.

He could see across the room, through another doorway, both doors opened in to a study, a big desk covered in books and papers. Paperwork and a few books had fallen to the floor, and there were some scuff marks on the hardwood floor. Shoes, two men; one obviously the husband from the similar marks throughout the house.

Whoever sat at that desk would have a clear, complete view of this family room, be able to watch a child and mother play. The doors being propped open said the husband wanted to watch, to be a part of the activities in this room.

"Is he going to say anything, or just walk around?" Dimmock asked impatiently. Sherlock went to the fireplace, unlit and dark. There was blood on the mantle, hairs sticking in the drying red smear. He looked down, and saw the body behind the other armchair. The mother, dead now, no longer smiling, eyes vacant, face frozen in an expression of surprise.

"John, come check out the body." Sherlock spoke for the first time since entering the house, as Sherlock backed away from the chairs, the music stand. There was something about the rug, the way the room was set up. How the study doors were open, and the old dictionaries propping them open said they always stayed that way.

John moved up next to him, and went around the other side of the chair, avoiding the blood that had spilled from the deep contusion on the dead woman's head. He knelt next to the body, and Sherlock let him do his thing.

Sherlock pivoted where he stood, and was able to see two large glass doors, covered in white curtains, that opened into the rear gardens. He strode over, and reached out for the handle, pushing one of the doors open easily. It was on a hinge that automatically closed the door unless something was holding it open. He let go, and the door swung shut, whispering over the cold stones of the patio. He could see the snow falling faster, sticking now in thicker clumps.

Sherlock looked back at the fireplace, and stared at that large rug. He shifted, catching it at a new angle, and saw why it was bothering him. There were two indentations in the rug, one covered in dark brown and grey hairs, the same colors as the rug, and a smaller depression next to it. As if a small boy and his best friend would sit on the floor, cuddling, and watch as Mummy played her violin…..

_They spent all their time in these two rooms. The father in his study, working, but not to the exclusion of his wife or child. The dust on the dictionaries holding open the study doors tells me there were put there a long time ago, and never moved. He wanted to see into this room, watch his wife play, watch his son tussle with the dog. Family dispute? Where was the dispute?_

_Domestics usually involves a more dramatic mess than one rug mussed up. Especially if one ends up with a corpse on the floor. Where's the thrown glasses, the pushed over furniture? She has no defensive wounds on her. She was surprised, thrown into the mantle hard enough to kill her. She wouldn't have been surprised if they were fighting. Nor would she have been playing the violin._

He moved farther back into the room, aware that Dimmock was becoming impatient. Donovan seemed more worried about Dimmock throwing a fit than the dead woman on the floor.

"Was the front door locked when the woman came over? The one who found the body?" Sherlock asked, everyone stopping, as if they had forgotten he was there until he spoke.

"Um… No I don't think so. That's the aunt, the dead woman's aunt. Came over to pick up the boy for a shopping trip for holiday presents. She had her key to get in the house, didn't need it, she mentioned the front door was unlocked." Dimmock offered.

"What kind of dog do the Carruthers's have?" Sherlock asked, looking back and forth between the angle of the study, and the patio doors.

"How the hell is that…?" Complained Dimmock, but he cut short his question when he was skewered by hard, glinting eyes. "I'll go ask."

"John, how long has she been dead?" Sherlock queried his doctor, the shorter man getting back to his feet slowly from where he was crouching next to the body.

"An hour, no more." John walked to his side. "You have that look again."

"I do?" Sherlock murmured, eyes sweeping the room. He knew what he was seeing, and the temperatures outside were making his heart race. This day was either about to end with two dead bodies, or just the lonely one on the floor. "An hour may be too late, now. Hopefully not."

_The back doors were unlocked. Family has a large dog, must need to go out. Fenced back yard. Open the doors, let the dog in and out. Why was the front door unlocked if the aunt was expecting to use her key? It's obviously locked all the time then. But the back doors, these doors, are not._

"Sherlock, what's going on? What do you see? Did the dad take the kid, kill his wife?"

"No, to both counts." Sherlock spun as Dimmock came back, the victim's relatives in tow. "What kind of dog?"

The older woman spoke up, her voice clouded by tears and despair. "What does it matter? Find my great nephew! That bastard has him, killed my niece!"

"_What kind of dog?"_ Sherlock ground out, behind clenched teeth. _This was important!_

"A Cão da Serra da Estrela….. A large working dog, huge beast. Loves my great nephew. Named him Bear." Spoke up the older man, putting a hand on his wife's shoulder, rubbing as she cried. "Why does that matter?"

"That dog bonded with the boy. Would sit for hours with him as he listened to his mother play the violin." Sherlock stated, striding to the armchair, picking up the instrument and the bow. "The spots on the floor, look."

"Bear goes everywhere with Vic." Stammered out the aunt, wiping at her face. "He doesn't care much for anyone else but Victor."

"So where's the dog? Mother gets murdered. In front of the kid and the dog, I'm guessing, by the way the music sheets are flung about, the rug messed up." Sherlock pointed at the doors to the garden with the bow. "Those doors are not locked. Anyone could open them. They stay unlocked for the dog and the boy to come and go easily."

"Someone came in, killed the wife, and took the husband, boy escaped with the dog. If the father had the forethought to run, take his son after killing his wife, he would have used the leash in the kitchen to take the dog too. But he didn't. Where's the dog? He's not in here, and the father doesn't have him soooo…."

"Bear stayed with his master. Did you search the gardens, or just assume that they weren't here?"

"What is going on here?" Dimmock was nearly shouting. "Are you just making shit up now?"

"John, open the garden doors. All the way." Sherlock ordered his doctor, and walked to the doors as John flung them wide. He grabbed some flower pots, and propped them wide to the cold, damp air.

"What is he doing? Stop wasting our time….!" Dimmock shut up as Donovan's elbow jabbed him in the ribs.

Sherlock ignored everyone, stepping to the threshold of the family room, and put the violin to his chin. The curtains on the doors were fluttering in the cold wind, the snow falling briskly, sticking now in great white swatches. The terraces below him were partially obscured by the snow, and he feared he was too late. If the boy hadn't responded to the police presence in the house, he may be dead from exposure. Sherlock was hoping he was too afraid to come out of hiding.

"John, watch the garden. Look for movement." Sherlock ordered, and began to play.

The woman had been playing _Lux Aeterna_, _Requiem for a Dream,_ when she died, playing for her child, her husband listening from the other room. And so did Sherlock play it, loudly in the cold air, the notes floating out through the snow and wind.

The wind caught the song, pulling it away, down the hill, and Sherlock kept on. The song was a powerful one, and Sherlock found himself afraid. He was afraid he had been called too late to see that the boy wasn't missing, but hiding. There was no signs that anyone but the husband had been taken. The boy and his dog ignored as the killer took who he wanted from the beginning.

Sherlock played as loudly as he could, the wind pulling at his coat, snow landing on his face, on the violin as he willed the child to hear him. To be able to hear him. The boy had hidden so well that no one had seen him, if the police had even bothered to do their jobs and look for him…. The temperatures were so deadly, for a small boy hiding in terror.

"Sherlock!" John moved at his side, hand up to block the snow from his eyes. "Do you see it? At the bottom of the hill, near the back fence!"

"I see it, John. It's the dog." Sherlock played the chorus, loud, bow complaining against the strings. There was an answering deep bark from the bottom of the hill, a large shadow shaking himself as he came out from under a hedge along the fence.

"John, get a blanket." Sherlock dropped the bow and violin to the nearest couch, and he ran. He ran out across the patio, down the wide stone steps, across the flat expanse of each terrace. Sherlock could see the large Estrela, the dog brown and grey in wild patterns, long fur shaggy and deep in his winter coat.

Sherlock hit the last terrace, slowing his breakneck pace. The dog dropped his great head as he approached, the growl rumbling out from him reminiscent of a spectral dog Sherlock had once heard in Dartmoor. This beast was very real, and willing to rip him to shreds to protect the small form huddled behind him under the hedge. Black eyes promised him pain if he went near the boy laying so still.

"Sherlock… Jesus, stay back, he'll tear your throat out." John was panting behind him, a blanket in his arms.

"No, he won't." Sherlock said, calm. He let the excitement and adrenaline fade away. His shoulders relaxed, and he would meet the dog's eyes for an instant before dancing away. His hands were down, at his side, and he made no move towards the child. This dog loved his master, and Sherlock was certain he had saved the boy's life with his devotion.

"Bear." Sherlock spoke the dog's name, deep and in command. "Behave."

Sherlock didn't smile when John swore in amazement, as the great beast blinked at him, head lifting slowly. The growling stopped, and Bear snuffled loudly. The dog tilted his head, and took a step forward, towards Sherlock. The big black nose sniffed at him, the bushy tail sweeping the tiniest bit side to side. Sherlock held out his fingers, letting the dog close the final distance.

Bear threw his great head under Sherlock's hand, sitting at his feet to be petted. He ran his fingers through the thick multi-hued coat, and the great beast leaned into his thigh, heaving a big sigh, as if to say he was glad to have company. Sherlock smiled at the loyal animal, and spoke to his doctor.

"Go ahead, John. Get the boy out." Sherlock told the man he loved, and John went for the child under the hedge.

Bear gave a tiny grumble as John knelt under the hedge, wrapping the tiny boy up in the blanket. Sherlock tapped a finger lightly on his nose, and Bear subsided, ducking his head to be petted again. Little Victor was barely awake, strength enough left to tuck his head under John's chin as the doctor pulled him out from under the hedge. Sherlock felt a funny sensation in his chest at the sight, as if he had stumbled, and caught himself on the edge of a high fall.

"He's alive, and warmer than he should be, wearing just his nightclothes. Dog kept him warm, saved his life." John was in disbelief, and he clutched the small form to his chest, walking fast through the snow, up the terraces to the house.

Sherlock petted the dog, smiling at the deep black eyes of the gentle giant.

"Come, Bear. It's cold out here, for me at least." Sherlock whistled, and the giant dog lumbered along at his side, tail wagging. He made for the house, John far ahead of him now, people racing down the steps to crowd around the doctor and his precious cargo. "A detective of my caliber ought to be able to find you some treats."

* * *

><p>The study was empty but for Sherlock, and the Estrela who followed him. The boy had left minutes ago in an ambulance, his great aunt and uncle with him. The house had erupted into bedlam when John carried the boy in, police and techs swarming, the previously unneeded medics taking the child. John had assisted, right up until the ambulance left. He should be back in the house any minute, Sherlock looking up from the desk every few seconds to check.<p>

Sherlock pulled a dog biscuit from his pocket, tossing it at the expectant animal. It smelled good, and Sherlock wondered what it tasted like. He sniffed one, but saw some police officers in the family room eyeing him oddly, and he gave it to the dog. Loud crunching filled the room, and Sherlock smiled at the big animal, his tail wagging in wide arcs.

The desk was covered in formulaic work- the husband was a chemist. He was an adjunct professor at the nearby university, and consulted for a pharmaceutical company in downtown London. Sherlock rifled through the papers, noting the empty space for a laptop, missing now.

_Carruthers was contracted to help with stabilizing a new cancer drug. Trials were to begin next month. Hired to stabilize a drug…. Damn. The universe is rarely so lazy. This is not a coincidence._

_He was taken to stabilize Winter's Night. _

"That was amazing, Sherlock." His doctor was back, hands in his trouser pockets, staring at him as if he'd never seen him before.

"What was?" Sherlock absently petted Bear as the dog came to sniff at him, running a large furry ear gently through his fingers. He feared the reckoning that was coming, John's presence reinforcing the dread of his inevitable confession. John must be told; he had made a promise.

"You knew the boy was hiding, playing the music, knowing the dog would be with the boy- all of it. Amazing." John stated all that in his usual charming matter. Partially serious, with a sense of awe, and with a hint of bedazzlement. As he always had, since the first night Sherlock dragged him on a case.

"No, not really. I just used my eyes." Sherlock murmured. "Bear saved the boy, I just told him it was safe to come out of hiding."

"How did you know the dog would react to the music?" John asked him, and he eyed the great beast in question, who thumped his tail when he saw John looking at him. Bear walked over to John, and Sherlock felt a tiny smile move his lips as John did his best not to stiffen up when the big dog came over to him, demanding attention.

"He'd sit for hours with the child, listening to her play- that noise was associated with safety. Of course he'd come out."

Bear leaned into his hip, making John stagger a step, and he petted out of habit. "He's a handsome brute for certain. Aren't you? Good boy."

"Oh please don't baby talk to the dog." Sherlock groaned in exasperation, rolling his eyes. John ignored him and kept at it, making silly noises as the dog wagged his tail happily.

"We need to talk." Sherlock blurted out, uncomfortable. He had no idea how to tell John something like this. Usually, if it was something Sherlock didn't want John to know, he wouldn't tell him, confessing to something only if John caught him at it. But that was the old Sherlock, pre-Fall Sherlock. He was different now, more- he had so many more reasons to hide the darker side of things from John. But he couldn't, not after his promise.

His promise prevented him from being silent. He had promised John the week after his return, a few days John after confessed his love, that he would never hold back a truth, lie to John about anything. That promise was weighing on him now.

"About the case? Just need to find the husband now, yeah?" John had a silly smile on his face, the dog damn near pushing him over as his hands found a sensitive spot.

"About the case, yes. And," Sherlock paused, the words hard for him to find, much less vocalize. "And about something I haven't told you."

John stopped petting Bear, rubbing his hands to shake off the fur. The smile slipped away, and Sherlock tried his best not to look as nervous as he felt.

"Oh?" John was watching him, and Sherlock flinched at the doubt brewing behind John's eyes.

"I…. This is… Why is this hard!?" Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, curls sticking every which way. He snapped out with his other hand, and a stack of papers fell from the desk to the floor.

"Okay, not here. Not at a crime scene." John was at his side immediately, his right hand finding its way to that spot over Sherlock's heart. "Whatever it is, we'll work it out together, alright?"

Sherlock nodded jerkily, exhaling in frustration. John rubbed his chest, his hand steady, warm, distracting. John was here, with him. Sherlock leaned down, and rested his head on John's, absorbing his scent. The erratic thoughts that threatened to pull him under calmed, easing back from the front of his mind. John always did that for him- centered him. Only John Watson.

John rubbed his chest; his other hand finding Sherlock's, and the detective let his dear doctor soothe him.

"Sherlock." John whispered his name, their cheeks brushing, sparks floating as skin touched skin.

"Hmm?" He was captivated by how John's face felt on his, the scent of the soap from their shower, how this coat was too bulky, he couldn't see John's strong shoulders…..

"I love you." He accompanied those marvelous words with a small kiss, so small it was a brush of lips, faster than a thought.

"I love you too." Sherlock dipped his head the last distance, giving John a kiss much more substantial. He needed John, needed his touch, his presence, his love. Sherlock needed John in every way possible, beyond want, beyond desire.

Sherlock took one leisurely taste after another from his lover's lips, John stepping deeper into his arms. He hummed, pleased, content to put the truth on hold to kiss his love. John put his arms around his neck, fitting them tightly to each other. Breathing sped up, not too fast, they needed to be alone and soon…..

"Can't leave you two unattended for any amount of time, I see." Donovan said loudly from the doorway of the study. "Snogging at a crime scene."

Sherlock refused to let John pull away, tongue sliding sensuously across his lover's lips before lifting his head. John was breathing fast, face flushed, his eyes dazed and full of a languid heat that made Sherlock's stomach muscles clench. He dropped his arms, and John pulled back, and Sherlock grinned as he could see the doctor trying to restart his brain.

"What do you want?" He asked the sergeant, not lifting his eyes from John's face.

"Now that the Christmas miracle is on his way to the hospital, care to fill us all in on what happened here?" Donovan demanded, but with only a shred of her previous snark in her words.

"Certainly." Sherlock grinned quickly, stepping around his befuddled companion.

Sherlock went back to the family room, the dog following him, nails clicking on the wood floor. DI Dimmock was speaking to two other officers, and it appeared every forensic tech had decided to be in this one room at the same time.

Sherlock saw the looks he was getting, figuring it was from the very intimate situation in the study a few moments ago. He could care less what others thought- only John mattered. If John let him kiss him in public, then Sherlock would. As easy, and simple, as that.

"Front door was locked. Breakfast was finished, family moved here, waiting for the victim's aunt to arrive. Child and the dog in their customary places on the floor, mother plays the violin. Stand has her facing the room, but as with most violinists when they are comfortable, relaxed, she closes her eyes as she plays. I do the same."

Sherlock pointed at the rug, his finger tapping twice in the air over the indentations made in it from the child and his dog.

"The boy and his dog watch, the music muffling the sounds from outside."

Sherlock threw a hand over his shoulder, towards the study.

"Father sits at his desk and watches, listens while he works. This is a well-established pattern of behavior, habit. They did this every morning."

"The music covers the sounds of the garden door opening, though anything would really, those two doors are maintained, open and shut quietly. Killer enters through the garden doors, mother doesn't see him until it's too late. One push back, hard in the chest, head hits the mantle and she's dead before she lands on the floor."

"Father sees the intruder, too late to save his wife. Child and dog are up, moving away; the dog is a herder, so his instinct in that situation is to protect his charge. The boy. The child runs, the dog follows. They run out the garden doors, down the hill, keep going until they hit the fence line. Father is the target, so is his work. Laptop and some papers are missing, judging by the printouts remaining on the desk."

Sherlock walked past Dimmock, heading for the front of the house, people moving out of his way. He went to the front door, and opened it, letting the cold air rush in. The crowd out on the street was larger, and Sherlock saw at least two news vans outside the crime scene perimeter. Cameras flashed as the reporters caught a glimpse of him, and Sherlock moved so he was obscured by the open door.

"The front door is always locked, as evidenced by the aunt having her key out as she comes to the door. Why was this door open? Very easy, the killer took the father out the front, to a waiting vehicle. No one would notice a service vehicle parked out front, like a delivery truck, or a heating and central air repair, not this time of year. And when the neighbors were canvased, you were all assuming that the father killed the mother, and took the boy, so you didn't ask the right questions. You got the first assumption wrong, and nearly killed a child for it."

Sherlock slammed the door, making everyone in the foyer jump. Dimmock had a pained expression on his face, and Donovan was clearly frustrated, glaring daggers at the DI. The dog sat at Sherlock's feet, huge mouth open, panting loudly in the silence. Big, shiny white canines gleamed in the lights.

John had followed them all, standing behind the crowd. Sherlock caught his eye, and the pride on John's face made him feel warm, as if he'd gotten too much sun, his cheeks heating. He turned away before his face could get swallowed by a full blown blush.

"There is a kidnapped chemist out there, try thinking rescue instead of murderous manhunt. How about you start over, see if you don't do better with the actual facts."

"Any questions?" Sherlock asked the room at large.

No one dared say a word.

* * *

><p>Mycroft strode out of his room, the new text from Anthea compounding his problems. Sherlock and John had snuck out before he got up for the day, as he lay sleeping peacefully beside Gregory. Thankfully he had Anthea, and she wasn't currently distracted by her new lover (not much at least), and she put a protective detail on his brother and the doctor as a precaution.<p>

He was silently cursing himself, knowing he should have thought of that. He took the stairs, turning to the kitchen and the breakfast room. He was expecting a full briefing in the bunker, and wanted tea before he engaged in his trade of espionage and world management.

Mycroft pulled up short as he entered the kitchen, the women clustered around the table giving him a jolt. He was not used to so many people actively living in his house, and Mycroft sighed as he saw Gregory sitting next to Violet at the breakfast table. Anthea sat across from them, reading a report and sipping her tea like this was all perfectly normal.

"Mycroft, come eat. Tea's warm, eggs are fantastic." Greg patted the empty seat next to him, and Mycroft found his feet moving in that direction before his brain could figure out what to do. He never ate breakfast with anyone but Anthea, and that was usually a sedate, reserved affair. She occupied in her mobile, he the same….

Mycroft stood next to the chair, wondering if he could get away with snagging a cup of tea and a kiss and running down to his office. But the happy and eager look on Greg's face made him smile tightly and sit down beside his man. Greg handed him a plate, full of actual food, and he did his best no to let on how good it looked.

"Mary! Come in, food's ready. Let me get you a plate." Violet shot up from her chair, as the blonde woman stood hesitantly in the doorway to the kitchen.

Mycroft froze, staring, eyeing the woman who was the focal point of all the trouble he was currently experiencing. He didn't realize he was being obvious about it until Greg kicked him under the table. Mycroft blinked, glared at the DI, and picked up his fork, digging it to the eggs without saying word. Mary hovered in the doorway, as if internally weighing the pros and cons of entering the lion's den. It wasn't until Violet sighed loudly and waved a plate at her that Mary came to the table.

"Here ya go, eat up. John got yelled at by the baby doc, said you weren't eating enough." Violet pushed the well laden plate at the assassin, who took it quietly, sitting beside Anthea. "Time to pack on the baby weight."

"I think I recall something to that effect. Really wouldn't call it yelling though." Said Mary, attacking her food with caution. She was pale, with dark circles under her eyes.

"It's yelling in my version of events."

Mycroft looked around the table. Greg was reading the paper next to him, one of his feet snuggled up with his under their chairs, his niece sitting on the other side teasing a pregnant woman, and his personal aide and all around miracle worker sipping her tea as if this was a normal morning.

Mycroft ate in silence, chewing slowly, and his heart did a funny flip when Gregory, without looking, reached out and took his free hand. Held it, hand warm and strong, between them on the table. Just held his hand, and he forgot how to chew his food. He choked a little, and Greg slid his tea closer.

He saw Mary eyeing him over her food, one slim brow raised in question. She seemed to know why he was out of sorts, and he went back to eating, wondering again how he was sitting where he was, his table crowded by people. It wasn't unpleasant, just foreign. Not his usual milieu.

They all ate in that bright and cheery room, and Mycroft was thoroughly enjoying himself. Not so much the family atmosphere, just the man sitting next to him. Foot rubbing his under the table, holding his hand, and once, when a napkin fell off the table, and firm stroke of the DI's hand along his thigh. He was proud of himself for not jumping, and the look in Greg's eyes as that scamp pretended he hadn't done a thing made Mycroft want to drag him to the floor and do very impolite things.

"I have business I need to attend to shortly. Gregory? Need assistance anywhere?" Mycroft stood quickly; exceedingly glad he wasn't showing signs of how aroused the last thirty minutes had made him.

"Oh, well, I was going to stay….. Um, second thought, I could use some help getting back to my room, thanks." The DI saw the gleam in Mycroft's eyes, and swiftly caught on. Greg stood carefully, and Mycroft ignored the smirks from the three women still sitting at the table. Violet wasn't being subtle at all in her smug attitude, simpering at him when he threw her a glare.

Mycroft helped Gregory out of the kitchen, going down the hall to his makeshift room. His pace was faster, and soon Mycroft figured he might be able to take the stairs. And once he could, Mycroft was moving Gregory Lestrade into his bedroom and never letting him move out.

"What kind of business?" Greg asked idly as they entered his room, and Mycroft let him go, the DI making his way to the couch on his own. He still sat on it heavily, face strained. Mycroft closed the door, and locked it. He leaned back against the hard panels, and stared at the man on the couch.

Dark grey and silver hair, whiter at his temples, darker near the top of his head. Thick too, the coloration giving the only hint to his fortieth decade. Few lines on his face, faint crow's feet near his eyes. This man laughed a lot. Smiled a lot. Strong build, firm muscles, tall and straight. And every inch of him turned Mycroft on like he was a teenager again, determined to demystify sex.

"Business that can wait. I'll talk to the Prime Minister after I do something more important." Mycroft strode over to the couch, towering over the man reclining on the armrest.

Greg stared up at him, and Mycroft watched as a very sexy, super naughty and devilish grin lit up his features. Greg reached out his hand, and Mycroft joined him on the cushions. He sat on the edge, and held still as Gregory used his arm to leverage himself back up to a sitting position.

"Mycroft?" Greg whispered in his ear, lips caressing, his breath teasing.

"Yes?" Mycroft tilted his head just enough to look his lover in the eye, but he got distracted by those lips so close to his own.

"You know I've never…. What you did to me…. Before….. I've never done that to anyone." Greg was getting red in the face, a deep scarlet on his cheekbones. He leaned in to Mycroft, hiding his face behind his ear, leaving wet, small kisses on his neck. "Can I….. Would you let me?"

He would swear on his own intelligence that he never felt a more amazing feeling as that wild surge of lust that spindled out from his groin, at those shy words from his DI.

"Never? Not even when you were married?" Mycroft flinched, thinking that mentioning that miserable excuse of a marriage was to be a killjoy for sure. But Greg just sighed, and one of his hands crept over his thigh, up towards his hip.

"Never. Just the regular man and woman thing. The boring stuff. Never had fun of any sort in that farce of a relationship." Greg was waiting, and he was still hiding his face in Mycroft's neck. His breath was warm and moist, and Mycroft felt his ability to reason leak out his ears when Greg found a sensitive spot and sucked gently.

"Yes, I want you to." Mycroft assured his lover, and tried to turn to him, take him in his arms. But Greg ducked his head, resting his hot face on the cool linen of Mycroft's starched shirt.

"Well, not now….In the middle of the morning, house full of company." Greg whispered, and Mycroft bit back a groan of disappointment. "Let a bloke work up the courage first."

"Whenever you want to, no need to rush." Mycroft put a finger under the DI's chin, and he lifted that handsome face. "There is no rush on any of it. You do realize I want you here with me, even after you're recovered, and back at work? I want you here, in my house, in my bed, my arms. Make this grand empty house a home."

Greg's face was a study in mixed emotions. First and foremost was a pleased, gratifying happiness. And a shred of disbelief that Mycroft could want him like that, more than sex or a warm body in the dark. Mycroft had been thinking along those lines for a long time, and he never meant those words more than as he did giving them life, telling this man how he felt.

"I know you've been lonely. So have I. So alone, and for so long, that I didn't know I was. I thought what I was feeling was normal, was expected, an equilibrium I was destined to endure because of who, what I am. Not even Anthea, not even my brother could make me see how lonely I was."

Greg said nothing, their eyes locked on each other. Mycroft felt the words come pouring out of him, each one easier to say than the one before.

"Move in with me, live with me. Give up that sad shell of a flat, let me love you, make love to you, let me be what you need. I promise you, there is nothing I want, or need, more than you in this whole world. I will start a war for you, release every secret I hold, slay every evil known to the Western world to make you happy, keep you safe, keep you mine."

"I can't stop loving you. And the most amazing thing, out of all that I feel for you? Is that I don't want to stop loving you."

Greg put a hand along Mycroft's cheek, pressed their faces together. He was crying, or Mycroft thought he was, but he couldn't be sure past the kiss. Every time they kissed, it was a powerful as the first, familiar as the last of thousands, and as wonderful as anything they could ever experience. Greg pressed tight to him, held him close, forever, an eternity, and yet over far too fast.

"Is that a yes?" Mycroft asked, blinking away the daze from his eyes. "To moving in permanently, I mean."

"It's a hell yes."

* * *

><p>The crowd was thick, even out on the street. Word had spread that Sherlock Holmes was in the house, on the case, and once twitter and Facebook got wind of it, everyone and their brother was flocking to the address. There were over two hundred people on this quiet residential street, all impatiently waiting for a glimpse of the great detective and his doctor.<p>

Jaime stood across the street, in a slim alley between two houses, leaning on the wall not far from her motorcycle. Clay was canvasing the crowd, dressed in plain civilian clothing, looking for the CIA hit men. She could see one from where she was standing, on the outskirts of the crowd on the sidewalk, dressed in plain clothes, his attitude, his stance, and the way he moved all screamed killer. Jaime had sent Clay into the crowd, to find the others.

This was no tail and trail op; they were waiting for Sherlock and John to exit the house. The slope of the front garden, the height of the sidewalks, the way the crowds were milling- all of it easily adapted to, and where her target was set up made it clear he was going to take the shot as soon as he could, and disappear into the panicking crowds. And with two targets, in this environment, there was more than one shooter, hence Clay scouting them out.

"My lady." His whisper came across her earpiece, and she was too focused to mind his use of the title. "I have mine. At your eleven o'clock, dark leather jacket, ten yards north of your target. He's armed."

She discretely put her hand up, pretending to brush her hair back under her hood. She tapped the earpiece, and spoke into the mic in her sleeve. She saw the man Clay described, and she was too far away to take him out without being seen. Clay would have to get him for her as she took out her own target.

"Mycroft's men?"

"In the black town car, three cars down from the police line, crime scene side of the street. They haven't gotten out of the vehicle, two men."

"What good are they as a protective detail if they won't get out of the bleeding car?" She didn't mean for Clay to hear her, she was so mad she forgot to drop her sleeve away from her mouth. She heard him laugh softly in her ear, and she found her mouth twitching.

"Orders?" Clay asked, his voice low and even. Perfectly calm. He may tear up thinking she was a burnt husk, but the man could kill as coldly as she.

"If they make an attempt on Holmes, Dr Watson- kill them all." She told her man, eyes locked on the front of the house. If Sherlock died, if John died… their deaths would mean there was one less protection between Mary and the vengeful natures of two superpowers. She thought she saw movement near the door of the house, as if a tall man with a black coat was framed in the doorway for a brief moment. "Get ready, he's coming out."

Jaime stopped leaning on the wall, and her hands subtly went for the nine mils strapped to her back, under her long coat. She waited, her attention split between the man she would be killing, and the men she must protect, so that Mary could live.

She didn't bother trying to be subtle about her bloodthirsty grin.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John asked him, as he took the leash off the wall, where it hung over the bowls in the kitchen.<p>

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked his doctor, as he bent down over Bear, snapping the leash to his collar. Bear licked at his face, and Sherlock ruffled his thick fur. He bent down further, picked up the two bowls, dumping the stale kibble in the trash. Thankfully the water dish was empty.

"Are you….. Are you stealing the dog?" John asked in disbelief, and Sherlock scoffed at his question.

"Stealing? No. Keeping him away from the moronic public animal services that the police called to take him, why yes I am." Sherlock held up the leash and the bowls, and waved the both of them at John. "The father is missing, the boy in the hospital, and those two relatives are not going to want him. I'll give him back once we find the father, and the boy is better. He's mine for now."

"Pick one, I'm not carrying the bowls and handling the dog."

"Oh Christ." John absently reached out, and the hand closet had the leash, so he ended up holding onto a very large dog who was beyond excited to be going for a walk. "We're stealing a dog."

Bear towed him towards the front door, people jumping out of the way. The dog and John were nearly the same weight, and the dog had far better leverage on the floor. Sherlock chuckled as he followed behind his doctor and the dog, thinking he would have to stop for better quality kibble on their way home. Poor thing had been eating off brand kibble. Atrocious.

Sherlock caught up to them at the door, as police officers and forensic techs poured out of the house in front of them, more following behind. Sherlock and John stepped out in to the hazy grey light, snow still falling, the wind blowing it in swirls across the dead front garden.

The street was packed with people, who started screaming and shouting once they saw Sherlock and John. Cameras flashed, and news crews aimed their video cameras at them as they walked to the sidewalk. Sherlock saw his brother's car, and lifted a hand, signaling the men inside.

_No need to pay for a taxi back to Baker Street. Bear should be able to fit in there with us. Maybe….. Where to get kibble…._

His thoughts abruptly scattered at the first gunshot, the pop loud in the air. So close was it, so out of place and unexpected, that everyone froze, except for the police man just behind John, to Sherlock's left. He fell, dead from the hole in his forehead.

"John! GET DOWN!"

More shots filled the air, and the crowd out on the street came alive with panic.

* * *

><p>"Clay, now!" Jaime screamed into her mic, raising her nine mil. She heard Clay fire, and narrowed in on her target, confident her man would handle his.<p>

The hit man just in front of her was running with the crowd, firing at John Watson on the sidewalk. She tracked him, running low with the flow of panicked civilians, as he made it to a car on their side of the street. She dodged hysterical people, moving through them as if they weren't there. Her target was focused on the man on the cold ground across the street, and Jaime's focus was centered on him.

There were too many people heading for the cars, trying to hide, that she put her gun away, and pulled her silver blade. The long knife flashed in the chaos, and she sank it hilt deep in his side, as he knelt up from the wet pavement, aiming for the doctor.

She plastered herself to his back, an arm under his and around his chest, holding him tightly, and she twisted the blade. Sharp and true, the blade ripped through the layers of his winter coat like it was tissue paper, destroying his kidney and the surrounding flesh. She laughed in his ear as he died.

Her target was dead before she extricated her blade, and she backed away, running among the screaming idiots huddled behind the row of cars. She heard more gunfire ahead of her, and she saw her first mistake in a long time as she cleared the far corner of a news van. There was another hit man, a third killer, and he was shooting from the roof of the other news van, at the prone forms of the detective and the doctor on the ground. Clay's target was down, pulped head spread like jam across the street, but Clay was taking fire from the inspectors across the street, hiding behind a cluster of trash bins.

"Clay! Get out of there! I have the last one! That's an order!"

Jaime saw that the police were thinking Clay was one of the hit men, and they had yet to see the man crouching on top of the news van, firing at the two men unmoving, huddled behind some concrete topiary planters. Jaime didn't know if Holmes and Watson were alive or dead, and she spared them no further thought, knowing they would be for certain unless she acted fast.

The last hit man was her target, and she ran across the wet pavement. Any shots she made would draw fire from the police, who were idiotic enough to shoot first, look for allies later. She was thankful as she leapt for the back of the news van that her hood was still up, her hair braided out of the way, as a reporter was filming the anarchy, camera pointed at the man shooting from the roof of the van.

Jaime grabbed the steel rungs of the ladder, not climbing them as much as using them to swing herself up in the air, along the side of the vehicle. She flew up, just high enough to reach out over the roof, and snagged the back of the hit man's collar in her hand, clenching her fist tight.

Her momentum pulled them forward, and Jaime yanked the man off the roof, over the front of the van, cracking the windshield as he tumbled down to the street. They were out of view of the cameras, the police having stopped firing. Clay must be gone, and she hoped he was, and not dead. She landed on her feet, a few paces away from the killer, and she went for him.

The hit man sprang to his feet, wet and pissed off. He raised his gun, but she was already there, inside his personal space. She knocked his arm out to the side with one hand as he fired, the stink of gunpowder fresh in her eyes. She punched forward with her blade, her full weight behind the strike. She relished in the complete, total, absolute dismay in the hit man's eyes as she killed him.

Her knife sank through his sternum, her lips pulled back in a feral snarl, the scent of hot blood as familiar as the air she breathed. The crunching from his chest was muffled, and she enjoyed every sound, as his weight pulled him off the knife, to the wet ground.

Jaime sucked in the cold air, the frigid damp clearing the blood haze from her thoughts. She could hear police shouting, sirens approaching, reinforcements arriving. She tucked away her knife, and slunk along the side of the van, peering through the front windows to see the far side of the street.

Sherlock was alive, kneeling beside the smaller form of John Watson. He wasn't moving.

"My lady?" It was Clay, still alive, thankfully. "I'm away, no pursuit. Please tell me you're out of there."

"Too late, Clay." Jaime looked up and down the street, police vehicles converging from both directions. She walked to the other end of the van, still hidden from sight of the police and the detective on the other side of the street. The camera man was still filming, but he was focused on the front garden where Sherlock was clearly visible. Her alley was overflowing with police, and civilians hiding.

"I'll be making my way out on foot, wait for me at the rendezvous. I will be fine."

A small group of people were running past, probably heading for their own homes or vehicles. Jamie ran with them, counting on people's panic to keep them from noticing her, or the dead man she'd left on the wet pavement.

* * *

><p>"Sir!" Anthea called out, her voice echoing in the bunker.<p>

Mycroft stopped glaring at his niece, at the abysmal mess she'd made of one of his work stations. He had come downstairs to grab some files before his meeting with the Prime Minister, only to find his workspace usurped by his blood, and turned into some sort of hacker-cum-spy network monster tracker.

"What?" Mycroft did his best not to shout.

"There's been an attempt on Sherlock and John. In progress right now, multiple shooters. Sherlock and John are down, no status on their conditions. Active shooters are still firing."

Mycroft wavered on his feet, and moved slowly, unsure he had heard Anthea correctly. Violet came to his side, her hand tight on his elbow. It was her touch that snapped him out of his shock.

"Send help, now. Send everyone!" Mycroft ran for the bunker door, Violet and Anthea on his heels.

* * *

><p>"John? John!" Sherlock knew he was screaming, shouting, his composure shot to hell. He cared not one iota that people saw him shatter, as John lay still on the frozen earth. His face was white, eyes shut, and Sherlock shook him lightly, trying to make the man he loved wake up, to look at him.<p>

Bear huddled next to them, whimpering and whining, nosing at the doctor. John had a bruise forming over his temple, from hitting a concrete planter as Sherlock tackled them both to the ground. There was blood all over John's coat, the greenish-grey fabric wet with it, glistening in the weak sunlight. Sherlock tried to find a wound, but he couldn't focus, tears and fear rendering him useless.

"John! Sherlock, is he hit?" Donovan shouted at him, rushing to his side as Sherlock checked every inch of John's clothing, his head, legs, looking for bullet wounds.

"I don't know! John!" Sherlock screamed his doctor's name, tears running down his face, terrified. So consumed by the thought that he may have lost John, Sherlock was coming apart, head to toe. "He isn't waking up! JOHN!"

"Shit, Sherlock! Breathe! Just breathe!"

Sherlock dimly heard the words, but he couldn't see who it was speaking to him past his panic. John was still, limp, and Sherlock couldn't figure out why. There was a screeching noise loud in his ears, the winter storm brewing over head racing down to pummel his heart to icy dust.

Hands reached past Sherlock, bodies crowded around, people trying to pry him away from his doctor. Sherlock struck out in a rage, screaming obscenities as paramedics shoved him away. Sherlock heard the roar of an enraged animal, and a great furry beast threw itself over him, to the ground.

Bear stood over him, snarling at the police who had dragged Sherlock away from John. Sherlock reached out around the dog, past the people kneeling next to John, to grab his doctor's hand in his. Sherlock clutched, the only part of John he could see was his fingers, people blocking Sherlock's view.

"John…." Sherlock clung tightly, refusing to let go. "John!"

* * *

><p>"Sir, Sherlock is alive, and our men can't tell if he's hurt or not. John is down, paramedics are tending to him on scene."<p>

Anthea was listening intently to his people on the other side of the line, mobile pressed to her ear. His Jaguar devoured the streets as they raced to the crime scene. Violet sat beside him, her knees drawn up to her chest, her bruised and still lovely face scrunched up in fear.

Mycroft had lost one of his hands to her grip, but he let her have it. He was texting to his security teams as Anthea talked to one of the guards that a tailed the men as they left the townhouse that morning. He was putting extra coverage on his brother, and arranging it for the townhouse even now.

Mary and Gregory were in the bunker, under guard, the door sealed shut under a priority lockdown that would take him to open, and only him. There were two teams in his house, between his people and any threat that came for them. Mycroft didn't need to check to know he had three security details trailing his car, one in front, as they tore through London.

"It's the Vicar, isn't it?" Violet asked quietly, leaning into his shoulder as the car took a corner far too fast.

"Yes. And it was the last thing he will ever do."

"Sir?" Her voice was low, and her eyes troubled as she met his. Anthea was afraid to tell him something.

"Tell me."

"Our men said that it appears John Watson is grievously injured… and Sherlock has snapped. They said he's become violent."

"Driver, get us there now."

* * *

><p>"Let me go! Damn you all!"<p>

Sherlock struggled against the cuffs, the men holding him to the ground. He had eyes only for John, as the paramedics took him away on a stretcher. No one was telling him anything, would let him up to go see his lover. He had knocked down a police officer after Bear let him up, trying to get back to John's side.

Everyone overreacted, and Sherlock found himself cuffed and sat upon. Donovan was ignoring his shouts, holding the dog's leash as she talked rapidly to someone on the phone.

The ambulance holding John lit up, and took off down the street. Sherlock screamed, and pulled hard on the cuffs, trying to get free, to follow.

People were running everywhere, swarming around the bodies on the ground. One police officer was dead, and Sherlock could see from where he was laying, chest pressed to the cold ground, that there were more bodies out in the street. Not alive, as evidenced by the fact the paramedics were tending to everyone else. The crowd on the street had dissolved into a mad riot, a chaotic disaster once the shooting started.

"Let me up." He growled, and he managed to twist his hands in the cuffs, preparing to break his own wrist to escape. "Now."

"Sit on him until I tell you to get up!" Donovan ordered, and she went back to speaking on the phone.

Bear was sitting forlornly at her feet, looking sad and dejected. He saw Sherlock looking at him, and perked up, great tail wagging in the dead grass. He pulled on the leash, and nearly yanked Sally off her feet. Sherlock grinned in wild approval, glad she was distracted, that the men holding him down were watching the dog. He was going to snap his wrist, slip free, and go after John. And God help anyone who tried to stop him.

"Sherlock, you will NOT be breaking your wrist." A voice behind him stated firmly, and Sherlock turned his head, to see an immaculate Italian leather shoe standing next to his shoulder. He looked up, and squinted at his brother.

"Gentlemen, please let him up." Mycroft ordered calmly, far too calm for Sherlock's state of mind.

_John is hurt, John needs me. And they took him!_

Violet came out from behind her uncle, and started swatting at the men sitting on Sherlock. They moved away, when Mycroft waved them off. Violet went behind him, and she had the cuffs off and away faster than she should have, as he hadn't seen anyone give her a key.

She grabbed his arm, and helped him to his feet. Sherlock barely had time to stand before she wrapped her arms around him, face buried in his chest. She hugged him, her attitude one of fear and desperate relief. His arms closed around her automatically, and he shuddered at the comfort he got from her, still so unexpected.

"Mycroft… I have to go…John…"

"One of my men is in the ambulance. Dr Watson is awake, and asking for you. If you would like to behave, we can go meet him at the hospital."

"But….." Sherlock finally processed his brother's words. John was awake, John was asking for him. John was awake…

"Come on, let's get the hell off this fucking street before another psycho decides to try and kill us all." Violet tugged him away, and Sherlock let her, heading for the fleet of black cars that overran one side of the street.

Sherlock stopped, and whistled loudly. There was an answering bark, and a woman's shout. Bear bounded out of Donovan's grasp, the police sergeant cussing at him, and he ran to Sherlock's side. He picked up the leash in one hand, held Violet with the other, and utterly ignored Mycroft's dismay as the big dog followed happily.

* * *

><p>Jaime watched from the far side of the street, as the motorcade swept off after the ambulance holding Dr Watson. Sherlock was alive, and she figured John must be as well, considering how swiftly Sherlock had calmed down after his brother showed up on scene.<p>

The cars holding the Holmes' family roared by, less than ten feet from her, and she laughed softly under her breath, keeping her head down, hood pulled tight over her face. The exhaust from them washed over her, the smell of wet pavement and damp wet earth rising. She took her time, confident the blood on her clothing was hidden by the black fabric. She hadn't fired a single shot, and two of the Vicar's men were dead beneath her blade, the third by Clay's hand.

The Vicar would be beyond enraged at this point. And the violence was no longer restricted to the hidden parts of the city, out of the public eye. This fight had been very public, portions of it most likely on the news right now. Dozens of people injured, three dead. And she and Clay gone, with no one able to clearly say what, or who, had stopped the carnage. She figured parts of her were on footage, but no one had seen her face. So it mattered not.

This was about to collapse into a bloody, violent power struggle, between two men who held far too much power. The Vicar had made two moves, and soon Mycroft would retaliate. People were going to die, bleed. And yet neither of them knew just who was winning. Neither of them were on the leaderboards.

Jaime Moriarty was winning the war, the last two battles hers, with the prize Mary Morstan. She would whittle the Vicar's men down to the roots, until he was vulnerable enough to be slain. He would come for Mary himself, and that is when Jaime would strike him down.

Mycroft Holmes was no threat to her. Jaime knew the way around him, always had, and she would do so to take Mary out from beneath his so called protection. And if he was properly appreciative of her assistance, she might leave him breathing when she did.

And once the threat to Mary was gone, Jaime would give Mary what she wanted. Freedom, and a life, a future.

_And who knows, I may let Mycroft Holmes do the honors. Kill the Vicar himself. He hasn't personally killed anyone since his own brother. I think he might appreciate the gift._

Jaime laughed freely in the cold air, the cars long out of sight. She danced a few steps down the sidewalk, giggling, wondering who would die next.


	46. His Wrath, Her Bargain

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**WARNING: An absolutely naughty sex scene that left me needing a cold shower.**

**A/N: For those who sent PM's asking, yes, Bear is a real dog. In fact, he's my real dog. I couldn't resist. I apologize for the delay in posting, I had a stranger try and break into my house Thursday, and I'm still pretty shook up. Took everything I had just to wrap this chapter up. I will not let this recent even t keep me down, and I'll be bringing out the big guns in the next chapter. **

**Read, enjoy, review.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Forty Six<strong>

"_**His Wrath, Her Bargain"**_

"Go easy, Sherlock. He hit his head really hard, he's got a serious concussion. Don't hover, he can't handle hovering."

John thought he recognized that voice, but he couldn't open his eyes to see who was talking. It was a woman, with an American accent.

_Why can't I open my eyes, where is Sherlock?_

_Sherlock Fell… he fell, I saw him…_

_Sherlock, where are you…. I miss you, come back to me. Please don't be dead….I never told you how much I loved you…_

_No, Sherlock don't….._

"John? Are you awake?" Now that was a voice he knew. Deep, rumbly, and it made his insides shiver. That voice had always been special. As special as the man it came from.

_Sherlock is dead, isn't he? Why does my head hurt?_

"Sherlock?" John whispered, prying his unwilling eyes open. The room was bright, and his eyes wouldn't focus. There was a black blob wavering in front of him, and he blinked, trying to make his eyes work.

"John?" A warm hand brushed across his cheek, a thumb caressing his face. It was that familiar and wonderful touch that woke him fully. Pulled him from the painful, lonely past, and reminded him that miracles do come true.

The chaos at the crime scene echoed in his ears, and he flinched at the memory of gunshots ringing over their heads. His head was pounding in time with his heart, and the light hurt his eyes. John groaned quietly, the pain making his mouth water, like he was going to get sick.

John squinted, and stopped, his temple hurting so badly he flinched, but his vision cleared enough for him to see his detective.

John's eyes devoured Sherlock, who was sitting beside him, face strained with worry. His detective was dirty, wet, had blood drops on the left side of his face, and dog fur sticking to his black coat. And he never looked more handsome. John breathed in relief; Sherlock looked okay. His head was feeling somehow heavy and hollow all at once, his vision wavy and making him nauseous.

"Hey." John said, blinking slowly, and he tried to lift his hand. Sherlock saw, and reached out, meeting him halfway. Sherlock held his hand, the other gently stroking his face.

"Hey back."

"You… okay?" He would be all right, as long as he had his detective.

"You're the one in the hospital, and you're asking me if I'm okay? John, you never stop astounding me."

"Don't want you to get ….bored with me."

"You are the only person in the world who will never bore me."

* * *

><p>Mycroft waited at the hospital long enough to insure his brother had regained his sanity, and the doctor was in good hands. Violet was given her own protection detail, and she promised to stay with her uncle and the doctor, not leaving their presence for anything. Mycroft had them all in a closed off section of St Bart's, an area freshly renovated that hadn't been opened up yet for use. Mycroft was taking no chances with his family, not after this morning's debacle.<p>

Mycroft had two teams protecting his niece, his brother, and the man his brother really should marry. Having to strong-arm the hospital into getting Sherlock access to the doctor, and able to make decisions for him, was tedious and annoying. Beneath his capabilities.

_As long as it isn't a wedding with a silly reception and flowers…. Though I wouldn't mind seeing Gregory in a tuxedo. And then getting him out of it afterwards…._

Things got especially annoying when he had to threaten the staff with exile to the Artic when they complained about the very large dog that had attached itself to his brother. The beast stayed, and Mycroft was not going to bother asking where it came from. His brother and dogs. Always a mess.

Anthea was waiting for him at the doors of the hospital, flanked by armed guards. He got in his Jaguar, Anthea at his side. She closed the door, and Mycroft pondered his choices.

"What do you think, my dear? Play nicely, or go for the throat?"

"In my considered opinion, sir, you have never played nice. Don't start now." Anthea grinned at him, her classical features angry and bloodthirsty. "Rip out The Vicar's throat."

"Yes, dear." Mycroft nodded to his driver, and his motorcade pulled away from the hospital. "But first, it's time to bring the Prime Minister to heel."

"I have some more information from our men."

"Tell me everything you have," said Mycroft, and he smiled grimly as the cars headed for Downing Street. This was meant to be the usual visit, with polite conversation and full of status reports on the multitude of missions and ops Mycroft was running across the globe. But not this time.

"The three dead men are coming back one hundred percent clean, but our files on Williamson's surveillance show them to be his people, from a fresh group he called in yesterday. Here's something interesting: None of our people killed them."

"What do you mean, none of our people killed them? Did John get a shot or two off before Sherlock knocked him out? Or was it the police? Some of them must pass their qualifiers to be allowed to carry."

"One of the hit men was killed by a double tap to the head, within ten feet. The last two? Stabbed, single wounds." Anthea met his gaze, her face showing her consternation. "The protective detail we had on Sherlock and John never made it past the car once the shooting started. They didn't kill the CIA."

She bit her lip, and settled deeper in the seat next to him. Anthea's perfume drifted through the short space between them, teasing his attention.

"The police say they think there was another shooter, one who got away. But as some witness reports have that one shooter killing one of the three Williamson sent, I'm inclined to believe that he was one of the people responsible for saving Sherlock and John."

Mycroft leaned back in the plush leather seat, thinking hard. This was most unusual. Mycroft started to think aloud, a habit he only shared with Anthea. Sherlock would ruminate out loud to anyone, he was not in a position to be as discreet as his elder brother.

"Sherlock and John rescue Mary in time, but only make it out of Leinster Gardens because an unknown sniper covers their retreat. Sniper is presumed dead in the catacombs, as they get ambushed by two CIA killers. John kills one, Mary the other."

Mycroft rubbed his fingers over his knee, thoughts spinning. Downing Street was coming up, he needed to sort this out quickly.

"Next, Sherlock and John get ambushed by the Vicar's men. Three hit men sent to take them out in a public way, to send a message to me that Williamson is not to be trifled with. Instead, his attempt to kill my brother and the doctor is foiled, by unknown individuals. From what I saw at the crime scene before we left, it's obvious that there was more than one person protecting Sherlock and John this morning."

"That line's up with what our people are reporting, yes."

"Who is this shadowy person, this group of people protecting my brother? I would say they were protecting Miss Morstan, but as she was nowhere near the crime scene today, that makes little sense. Any chatter out there? Perhaps someone from Sherlock's overseas missions clearing a debt by protecting him and Dr Watson?"

"No, sir. Nothing. Whoever is doing this is a ghost." Anthea told him, and the motorcade was taking the turn down Downing Street. "What will you tell the Prime Minister about the deaths?"

"The truth, of course. I assisted Williamson, our hands are clean. As we didn't send the sniper, nor are we responsible for the Vicar's people dying this morning, I can say with a completely clear conscience that I followed orders to the letter."

Mycroft sat in the car as they pulled up to the curb, thinking.

"Things will get very tense in there, my dear. I will have to go around him if he's feeling fractious today." Mycroft said softly to Anthea, grabbing her hand in his, squeezing.

"I know. I'm not worried. A pity you do more good behind the scenes; I would vote for you as PM in a heartbeat." She gave him that tiny smile, the one that said the world was full of fools, and she loved the one intelligent soul. "We wouldn't have nearly as much fun, though."

"Shush, you. Tell no one that's this is fun, they'll take away all my toys." Mycroft slowly released her hand, and she sat back, watching him. "Will you come or stay? Usually he has no issue with your presence, but considering today's topic, I don't want to put you under extra scrutiny from him."

"I'll be in there. Someone has to help you hide the body if you kill the idiot."

* * *

><p>"No, I will not keep my voice down! Heed me well, <em>sir!<em>" Mycroft was in fine form, pacing back and forth across the shiny wood floors of the Prime Minister's private office. He would stop and glare at each point, damn near impaling the poor man cowering behind the wide desk. "You foolishly invite a cold-blooded foreign operative to our shores, give him carte blanche to start his own manhunt, force me to assist in this matter without giving me the autonomy to handle The Vicar appropriately, and as a result, he threatens the lives of my family, my people, starts a shootout on the streets of London like this was the Wild West- _and you want me to calm down?"_

Anthea stood near the office door, hands behind her back, posture relaxed but serenely formal. No one looking at her now would be able to see the mirth she was suppressing as her boss flayed the PM to the bone for his idiocy. Though an observant soul might see the gleam of pride in her eyes as she watched the only man in this world she would ever love tear down a fool.

_I will never tell him just how amazingly sexy he is when he gets like this._

_Never, ever. But damn! Be still my heart….._

"Now see here, Mycroft!"

"That is Director Holmes to you, sir," Mycroft intoned in a deadly cold voice, making the PM snap his mouth shut. Anthea watched Mycroft tear down the snooty, uptight, elitist prick of a PM, reduce him to the emotional state of a sullen five year old, and just because he could, made him squirm.

"You placed the lives of British citizens in jeopardy in your attempt to curry favor with the CIA." His voice had dropped, the temperature in the room dropping with it. Anthea found herself leaning forward, the smallest amount, captivated by the dangerous creature in the room. "Your foolhardy restrictions made me complicit in a failed operation that resulted in the destruction of public property, shoot outs in residential areas, and now, a police man is dead, along with three foreign operatives. In full view of the public. _On the evening news."_

"You will no longer have the authority to go around me in these matters. Never again. You have placed the lives of every citizen in danger, and are no longer trustworthy to have access to my agency, its people, and my work. As by law, you shall be informed of certain operations, but you will have no authority to supersede me, or interfere."

"The Morstan matter shall be handled by my office, my people, and I have the final say in whether or not she is important enough to waste the manpower on. We have bigger issues to deal with in this world than one woman, without contacts or support. She is a non-issue."

Mycroft stepped close to the desk, and Anthea bit her lip to hide the smile that threatened to escape as the PM shrank back. Anthea was never prouder of Mycroft Holmes in her whole life than she was in this moment. He was marvelous.

"If you attempt, I any way, to interfere or meddle with my work in the future, I will be most put out. Don't make me upset Her Majesty by removing you."

Anthea waited, holding her breath. Here was the gamble; Mycroft would prefer not to kill anyone just because they were inconvenient. Mycroft hated waste. And a fool in office was more easily managed than someone with intelligence. The next Prime Minister may not be so willing to be handled.

But the legend of the Iceman, the man who knew all the secrets in the world, even the ones never spoken aloud, was intimidating enough, scary enough, and downright bloody ruthless enough to conceivably do as he threatened. And if he were a less moral man, Mycroft would already rule the world. He was a king, born in the wrong era, meant to rule with impeachable control and flawless execution, yet hidden in the shadows, in a time and age of democracy and freedoms.

The Prime Minister must believe that Mycroft would remove him. And if Sherlock, Greg, or even herself or Violet were to be caught in this power struggle? If anyone of them were to die? Then Mycroft Holmes would unleash the frozen wastelands of his wrath on the moronic goldfish who fucked up, and every single soul who had a hand in it. God help the world then.

"I….understand completely." The PM slowly stood, carefully, as if afraid Mycroft would snatch his life away in this instant. "I shall be sending my regrets to Director Williamson, rescind his credentials, and have him escorted to the airport within the day. My apologies at the inconvenience, Director Holmes."

"Thank you, sir. Lovely to see you can be counted on. Don't worry about sending your regrets, I will be doing it for you in person." Mycroft was once again cool and collected, the icy wrath hidden away. "I will see you next week for our regular meeting. Have a wonderful day. Oh, and don't worry, I shall be watching, as always."

Mycroft walked out, stately and confident. She fell in at his side, and they left the Prime Minister behind, no doubt weighing the odds of successfully taking out Mycroft Holmes and replacing him with someone more controllable.

"He's planning your demise this very second, I'm certain." Anthea whispered softly to Mycroft as they walked towards the front doors. She shrugged into her coat as he held it for her, and she caught the glimmer in his fierce eyes.

"Oh, I am certain as well. I wish him luck- arresting him for attempted murder would be advantageous; far better than killing him." Mycroft took her elbow as they stepped out of Downing Street, the valet holding the door to the Jaguar. They walked down the steps, and Mycroft leaned down to whisper in her ear. "You weren't helping me in there, you do realize."

"What? Me? I was perfectly behaved, thank you very much."

She slid in first, Mycroft next to her. The door shut, and they were away seconds later. She raised a brow at him in question, seeing the mirth around his eyes, belying his stern expression.

"I could nearly hear your laughter, so obvious was your enjoyment." Mycroft scolded, but he smirked when she laughed at his comment. "Every time I saw your face I wanted to start laughing too."

"I can't help it; watching you verbally eviscerate idiots makes my day."

"Then watching me forcibly remove The Vicar from British soil ought to last you through the holidays. Whether Williamson will be alive to enjoy his removal is debatable."

* * *

><p>"Sherlock! Woo-hoo, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson's incredibly loud whisper woke Sherlock from his nap. He was in a chair beside John's bed in this empty corner of St Bart's, his feet propped up on the loudly snoring Estrela stretched out on the floor.<p>

The dog gave off a surprising amount of heat, and didn't mind at all being used as a foot warmer. Sherlock sat up, lifting his feet from the dog, who merely rumbled, and rolled to his back. Sherlock spared a glance at John, but the doctor was still sleeping, hand out towards Sherlock on the white blankets.

Mrs. Hudson fluttered in the room, carrying a large linen bag, in which Sherlock could see some of John's clothes, and a garment bag from his armoire, hopefully holding one of his suits. Their clothing was filthy, muddy from the wet ground, and torn from Sherlock throwing the two of them behind the topiary planters.

Sherlock winced at that thought, knowing John's injury was his fault. The blood on the doctor's coat had been from the policeman's head as he died from the first shot. If John hadn't turned when he did, to see what Sherlock was waving at, he would have taken the bullet. John would be dead. And there would have been nothing Sherlock could have done to stop it, to stop his world from imploding, his heart dying, his life collapsing. And yet, Sherlock almost killed John, tossing him down as he did, John's head smacking hard on the concrete planter they'd sheltered behind.

Mrs. Hudson came over, and he tolerated her fussing hands, and the quick kiss she pressed to his curls. He snagged the garment bag, and gingerly got up from the chair, heading for the bathroom. Mrs. Hudson clucked worriedly over John, and Sherlock checked to make sure she hadn't woken him from his nap.

"Sherlock?" Called a weak voice from the bed. He paused in the middle of changing, his dress shirt unbuttoned, and he left the bathroom, heading back to the bed. John was awake, and struggling to sit up, his unfocused eyes alarmed at not being able to see his detective.

"I'm here, easy now." He caught John's hand in his, and Sherlock ignored the watery smile on Mrs. Hudson's face as John relaxed, eyes on his detective's face. "Shouldn't you be sleeping?"

"Was worried…. I woke up, you were gone….."

"I was no more than ten feet away, John. Shush now, sleep. Let your head find its way back to rights." Sherlock whispered, leaning down, and pressing a kiss to John's brow. He pulled back slightly, his hand cupping the doctor's bruised cheek, the welt over his temple having spread in the last few hours. "I was just changing, I hadn't left."

"Always running off…" John blinked heavily at him, and Sherlock found himself fighting off moisture in his eyes at the sadness in his lover's voice. John was obviously only partially awake, his eyes drooping shut longer between each blink. "Leaving me behind…"

"I will never leave you behind again, John Watson. I'm home now, with you, forever." Sherlock bent down, dragging a chair close enough he could prop his arms beside John, fingers running through grey-streaked blonde hair. "Go back to sleep, love. I'll stay right here."

"Okay…" John whispered, snuggling deeper into his pillow, "Love you…"

"I love you too John."

Sherlock ran his fingers through John's hair, as his lover fell back asleep. He sat quietly, Mrs. Hudson rubbing his shoulder as Sherlock again confronted the guilt, the remorse, of having caused John so much agony and grief over the previous two years. He would spend the rest of his life keeping such pain from ever touching John again, no matter the cost.

* * *

><p>Mycroft nodded to his security team, and the even dozen swept through the front door of Williamson's house, boots echoing off the marble floors. Mycroft could hear his men clearing the house, calling out room by room over the radio. Anthea was behind him, safely on the other side of the car, waiting for his men to insure their foreign friend's cooperation.<p>

"Sir, house is secure. Subjects acquired, bottom level, main sitting room. Clear for entry," his team leader's voice crackled over the radio. Mycroft waved up Anthea, and together they left the street and the frigid winds, and entered the Vicar's house.

They followed an operative to the room where the Vicar's operations had been set up. Sweeping his eyes over the assembled people held at gunpoint, and zip tied, Mycroft sought out the man he wanted to see. Who he wanted to see, but didn't.

"Where is Williamson?" He asked softly, his voice drifting out among the terrified technicians and officers.

"Sir?" A tech stammered out, flinching when Mycroft's icy gaze settled on him. "Director Williamson left over an hour ago. He said to….." he swallowed loudly and gathered the shreds of his courage, "he said to tell you that you can't stop him, and he'll be back to finish his…mission."

"Find him, now. Tear this house apart, interview every one of his people. See who else is missing," Mycroft barked out the orders, and he turned away sharply, Anthea nearly running trying to keep up with him.

"Mycroft, where would he have gone? We were watching the house, how did he get out?" Anthea asked, Mycroft nearly running in his haste to leave the house, to get back to the car. To get back to the bunker, to send the hounds of hell after Williamson.

"He went to ground, and he'll strike when he thinks us most vulnerable. He's certain we have Mary, and if we all stay here in London, he'll sit on the townhouse forever, hidden. Every time we go out, we'll be putting people in danger as he tries again and again to kill us. Mary can't remain there, not her whole life, and I don't think I can handle a pregnant assassin once the mood swings hit," Mycroft dodged the little swat Anthea threw in his direction, helping her into the Jaguar. "We need to get out of London, away from the city. Every one of us, including Ms. Morstan."

"Every one of us? I thought you were going home for the holidays?"

"I am, and so is everyone else. Remind me to call my mother, tell her we will be coming home for Christmas. And we will be bringing… friends."

"With Williamson after us, you want to bring that home to your parents?"

"The Vicar and his people will be highly noticeable in the countryside, especially in the village near my parent's place. I know every inch of that region, the hills and forests. As does Sherlock. We will have the advantage there. And I will kill him there, too."

"You will?"

"He lost his one chance to make it out of this country alive when he ran like a coward. He dies, even if I must do it myself."

"I'll have to cancel my plans then, you're not having all that fun without me."

* * *

><p>Peter was used to running everywhere, the drugs usually riding him hard enough that he couldn't keep still. So when The Vicar showed at the warehouse, a dozen dark shadows at his back, Peter was at a loss in what to do, since the Vicar certainly wasn't going to run after him.<p>

Peter looked over his shoulder again, for what felt like the millionth time, smiling crookedly at the silent CIA director as he followed Peter to Woodley's private labs deep in the heart of the warehouse.

He banged open the heavy metal door, and bowed The Vicar in to his master's private lab and office. The big man, while not carrying the look of an intellectual, was a fair hand at chemistry. Though his talents ran towards the recreational sides of things, and not so much the medicine parts.

Hannibal growled deeply from his bed beside the great oak desk, the rumbles echoing off the concrete walls and stainless steel tables. Williamson let his gaze pause briefly on the large dog, before dismissing the beast as unimportant.

"Welcome to London, Vicar," Woodley intoned from his microscope, the device looking small next to the large man as he bent over it, peering intently through the lens. "I'm sad you couldn't stay longer."

"I'm not leaving just yet; I have unfinished business to attend to before I go."

The Vicar left his men in the hall, slowly meandered over to the table, idly examining the formulas on the whiteboards, the beakers and vials in various stages of experimentation, wisely keeping his hands away from the substances laid out.

"No? I just heard Mycroft Holmes kicked you outta here, one way ticket back to the States."

"He tried. Can't send someone away if they aren't there to send."

"True," Woodley sat back on his stool, eyeing the CIA director. Peter knew that his master's calm exterior housed a vicious, nasty temper that was at the tipping point. He was most displeased that Williamson could no longer move with impunity; the deal for Violet Hunter seemed to be a lost cause.

"A shame you couldn't deliver on your obligations while you were here," he said, meeting the Vicar's gaze head on. Peter shivered and tried to spot a safe place to hide if things got violent.

"Ah, you mean Ms. Hunter," The Vicar smiled, and there was something in it that made Peter think the Vicar wasn't quite useless. "What if I settled that order? Within the next week? Would it garner me use of a quiet space to set up shop?"

Woodley leaned back, crossing his arms. Peter bit his lip, eyes darting back and forth between the Vicar and his master. Woodley thought so long Peter feared his master had slipped himself some product and zoned out.

"Peter." His name made him jump, and Peter scurried forward, bowing awkwardly to his master.

"Sir?"

"Please take the Vicar and his men to one of our empty spaces, preferably one of the nicer ones."

"Of course, Master."

"Oh, and Williamson? I already paid three million pounds for the girl. If I don't have her in my possession before the New Year begins, you won't have to worry about Mycroft Holmes finding you. I'll be feeding you to Hannibal."

* * *

><p>Jaime watched from the fire escape as The Vicar and his people were ushered into the decrepit warehouse, a wiry little junkie waving the men through a reinforced steel door.<p>

"What are they doing here?" Clay whispered in her ear, the ear bud barely loud enough for her to hear him over the howling wind. He was in the building opposite, and she regretted that they hadn't a clean shot on Williamson until seconds before he walked through that door. He wouldn't be coming out any time soon.

"Hiding."

"And what are we going to do with this information? Turn them in?"

Jaime laughed at that, the sound swallowed by the wind rifling through the alleys, up the side of the building. He was so innocent for a mercenary.

"No… We sit on this golden egg of information until we can use it to our advantage. Even two years dead, my brother's influence keeps affecting my life."

"My lady?"

"I know who Williamson went to for help. His name is John Woodley, Master Chemist of London. And James Moriarty made him who he is today, the city's biggest drug lord."

* * *

><p><strong>Two Days later…December 23<strong>**rd**

Mary groaned, so fed up and frustrated she didn't care she was acting like a spoiled child. She ran her fingers through her short hair, probably making it stand straight up in spikes, and again not caring.

"You want me to crawl through the bowels of London again? I can hardly use the stairs before I have to vomit by the third step!" She shouted, the pressure of using her diaphragm to do so making her stomach roll. Mary slapped a hand over her mouth, and ran for the bathroom, barely making it in time to get horribly sick. At least that proved her point.

"Dammit, Sherlock, make her see reason." Mycroft muttered loudly enough for her to hear. She leaned back on her heels, wiping her mouth with a hand towel, and glared at Mycroft so hard she was surprised she didn't lacerate his jugular from the bathroom.

Mycroft blinked, and carefully removed the frustrated look off his face. She could practically see the thoughts spinning in his head, most of them about assassins and pregnancy hormones. Sherlock bit his lip, and looked at the floor, losing a battle with his laughter. He wouldn't look up, so she didn't bother wasting the glare on him too.

It was two days after the assassination attempt on John and Sherlock, and Mary was astounded that they had waited until the last minute to tell her she was going home with them for the holidays. She wasn't in any mood or condition to deal with festivities right now. And traipsing through the catacombs in order to escape notice by anyone watching the townhouse was out of the question. She was finding even the simplest of things difficult right now, her morning sickness striking whenever it fancied, not just in the morning. She hadn't kept a meal down in days, managing to eat salty crackers and cool water. The doctor's advice to consume more calories was going to be harder than she thought.

"I'm not going," she growled from the cold tiles, panting beside the toilet, trying to calm down. "I am NOT risking my baby just so you can shuttle me about England like luggage!"

"John is going, and so is Lestrade, and both of them are injured, I don't see the difference…," Sherlock snapped his mouth shut fast when she lifted her head, skewering him with the glare he'd missed the first time.

"Greg and John are hurt, and recovering nicely. I am not injured, I am pregnant, and I intend to stay that way. I have severe morning sickness that is leaving me too weak to defend myself, much less walk down to supper! Which means no catacomb adventures, no traveling, and plenty of quiet time without a Holmes breathing down my neck! I haven't eaten anything in two days without throwing it back up, and you want to stick me in a house full of holiday food and strangers?"

Sherlock and Mycroft glanced at each other, trying to think of something to say. She figured she better convince them soon, or she'd wake up after one of them drugged her and she was halfway across the country.

"Listen to me right now." Mary breathed shallowly, trying to settle the roiling in her gut. "Sherlock, I will be fine here, I promise. This is what you are going to do: make a big show about leaving for the country, and have a short blonde operative bundled up getting into a car, make it look like I've left, and sell the lie by leaving yourselves."

Mary had disappeared plenty of times, it was easy enough to reverse the trick, and make them think you were gone, while still being around. Mary glared at Mycroft, the spymaster looking at her in a perplexed manner. Probably not used to having a sick pregnant woman telling him what to do from the bathroom floor.

"Mycroft, you set up your trap for Silas, kill him, wipe out his men, singe the CIA back to the Hell they crawled from, and I'll give you the details of my four hundred and twenty three missions. Every name, every order, and every black smear of evil I was tasked with in my fifteen years as the CIA's top assassin. Everything."

Mycroft developed a gleam in his eyes, one she'd seen in many men's when promised the world. What she knew was enough to cement his position for his lifetime, all the way down to those of his great grandchildren. And he knew it.

"That is tempting, Miss Morstan, but I'm sensing that's not all."

"Smart man, you really are Sherlock's brother." She grinned despite the nausea, wanting this conversation over so she could crawl into bed and sip on some plain tea. "What I know can burn down the world, why do you think the Vicar wants me back? Silas would not have come for any stray agent, not at all. But he came for me, himself."

"Yes, he did. I thought it unusual myself at the time, a director for one woman."

"Can you guess why? Sherlock, any ideas?" Sherlock didn't answer fast enough, and she waved him quiet any way. "He came for me himself because for the last ten years, before I retired, Silas Williamson was my handler."

Mycroft's thin brows disappeared into his hairline, and Sherlock nodded to himself, as if he suspected something along those lines. She now had them, and she could nearly feel the cool sheets beneath her cheek as she thought about sleeping once they left.

"He wants to silence me, before I reveal his off-book missions. The nasty, evil, vile things he had me do when his masters weren't looking." Mary leaned over, and literally crawled to the door jamb, glaring at Sherlock when he moved to help her. She grabbed the frame, and pulled herself to her feet. She wrapped her arms tight around her abdomen, the gesture not lost on either Holmes man.

"Mycroft, Sherlock." She met their eyes each, and sighed heavily. "I am not worth saving. I have done things so evil, so dark, that if I were you, I'd be dead already."

Sherlock went pale, and Mycroft got a harsh mien about his eyes.

"I am not worth saving, but my child is. John's child. You keep me safe until I bring her into this world, let me say goodbye, and then I leave." She ignored the shock on their faces, the unspoken dismay, and disbelief. "I am not fit to be a mother, but I am going to be one, and let this be my gift to my child. I'll give her to John, and in return for everything I know, you let me go. She will never be safe while I am in her life. And she will won't have the life she deserves if she stays with me."

"Mary, John won't..." Sherlock started to protest, but she silenced him with a sigh.

"John has no say in this. He will raise our daughter, I will leave to keep all of you safe. The CIA will never stop hunting me, and eventually Mycroft's peers will learn about me. Then I won't be able to leave. It's going to happen. I'll be stuck in limbo for the rest of my life, or in jail, or buried in a field somewhere with a hole in my head."

Mary could tell from Mycroft's face that she wasn't wrong. The wrong people would learn who she was, and what she knew, and would make everyone's lives hell getting to her, with her child caught in the middle.

"What I know in exchange for my continued safety, and you let me go after I give birth. John gets my daughter, and you get everything you've ever wanted in that devious spymaster's heart of yours." Mary struggled not to fall over, resting her head wearily on the door frame.

"Deal, gentlemen?"

Mycroft lost all expression, and Sherlock looked confused, and unsettled. She smiled grimly as she realized that if John was going to raise their child, then that meant Sherlock was too, and it was unnerving him something fierce. Yet for some reason, Mary found any fears for her child's future fall away at the thought of Sherlock Holmes being in her life. He would keep her safe.

"You have a deal Miss Morstan, enjoy your holidays." Mycroft didn't waste words, nodding to her curtly before slipping out of the guestroom.

Sherlock stood listlessly, staring at her as if he hadn't understood a word she said. She wondered what part was bothering him the most, her leaving her child to John, or the fact that once she did, _John would be raising a baby_ _with_ _him._

What he asked next floored her more than anything. She was thinking he might be worried about the prospect of raising a baby, or what would happen before then.

But he didn't, and instead asked her something so out of character it made her heart flutter.

"Mary…. You said daughter. It's too early to know the sex of your child. Why say daughter?"

She blinked, tears making a split second appearance as she thought about it. She had, hadn't she? Her mind stopped saying 'it' or 'the baby', and gone straight to 'her' and 'my daughter'. Her answer was so simple, so true, and real. Her heart knew what she was having, and no ultrasound could show her any different.

"Because that's what my heart says I'm having, Sherlock. A girl."

She smiled her first real smile in days when the younger man just nodded solemnly, accepting her words at face value. He gave her the smallest of glances before walking quietly from the room, the door shutting softly behind him.

* * *

><p>"She's staying here, John," Sherlock told the cranky doctor sitting in his chair, upset because the mother of his child wouldn't leave London with them, and because his head hurt too much to read the paper. "Stop complaining, Mary will be fine. Mycroft is leaving two teams to guard her, and she can escape through the tunnels if she must."<p>

John was moping, pure and simple, and for once, Sherlock was taking care of him. For the first time in years, John was the one needing help, and Sherlock was reveling in his role as caretaker. It was really easy. Pay attention to pain signals, provide sustenance, medication, and affection. Repeat. Don't repeat step three too close together or John gets too much medication. John isn't fun high, he just wants to sleep and grumble about Sherlock disappearing.

The no sex part was wearing at him, having grown accustomed to having it on a daily basis, oft times more than once, and suddenly having none was a jolt to his system. He understood though; the increase in blood pressure due to arousal would cause John's head to feel wretched, and no matter how beneficial an orgasm might be, getting John to that point would be too painful. So he would wait (as patiently as he could, he really did want his doctor) until John could handle it.

Sherlock was running back and forth between the front room, the bathroom, and their bedroom, packing clothing and toiletries for their trip to his parent's home. It was a few hours away by train, and Mycroft was picking them up in less than an hour to head to the station.

Sherlock ran through the list of everything they might need, and heard Violet thumping about above him in her room, packing as well. She had been here in 221B for nearly a month, and had more clothing than that brief a stay justified. But then she was a female, and she liked to shop (which he didn't understand, but it was her money and who cared?), so she apparently had a lot of wardrobe decisions to make. Sherlock grinned when he heard her stub her toe on John's old dresser, the swearing drifting down the stairs. His parents were in for a shock once they heard their granddaughter's vocabulary.

Her decision to come home with him was surprising, in some ways. She had made no overtures towards his parents, her grandparents, and he didn't blame her. His parents were shocked, deeply, to learn that Sherrinford fathered a child before he died. When he told them, during that brief call, he could have sworn he heard his mother cry. That was too much for Sherlock; usually tears affected him little. Unless they were his mother's.

Sherlock flinched and knew he would have to tread carefully with his mother and father, with Mycroft. Sherrin was such a deep, aching wound in the family, that he held little hope for Violet and his parents striking up a relationship. She need not rely on them for family; she was his, and Sherlock would never let her be unwanted in this world. She belonged to him, like John did now.

Sherlock picked up their luggage, looking around his room one more time before striding for the hall. He nearly ran into Violet, her approach down the hall silent. She was getting really good at being sneaky.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked as Violet dragged the chair behind her, towards the small space between the hall door for the bathroom and his room. The bags weren't that heavy, so he watched as she hopped up, and lifted her hand as high as she could, up in the dark corner of the hallway.

"Planting some bugs."

"Ahhhhhh."

"What is she doing?" John called from where he sat in his chair, and Sherlock heard his lover groan in pain as his voice made his own head hurt.

"Plant one in my room, and the kitchen too," Sherlock told his niece as he shuffled by her, glad he did as John was trying to get up on his own without help. Sherlock dropped the bags, and gently pushed John back to his seat.

"Violet is planting some surveillance devices to monitor the flat, as we will most likely have guests once we leave."

"What? Why would anyone come in here if we were gone?" John asked miserably, holding his head in his hands. Sherlock moved behind his chair, and rubbed his lover's tense shoulders, until John sighed in relief, his head drooping on his neck.

"Tons of reasons," Violet said as she came in the room, looking around for a good place to plant a bug. "Like replacing the bugs I neutralized, searching for progress on any of Sherlock's cases, Williamson looking for Mary, or that fucktard looking for me."

"Oh, okay. Plant away then." John waved a hand vaguely, his head still down, Sherlock easing the tension the pain was causing in his neck. "God, that feels good."

"Not quite John, but close." Sherlock murmured the old joke, and John chuckled. Violet rolled her eyes at them, and figured out a good spot for the bug. She picked up Billy, Sherlock's skull, and stuck it deep in an eye socket.

Violet aimed the skull, looking at Sherlock to see if he liked the angle, and moving it until his face lost that 'not quite there' look. She beamed, and went hunting for a spot in the kitchen.

"You ever gonna tell me that thing, that was bothering you that day at the crime scene?" John asked him out of the blue, and Sherlock felt his heart stutter, and his hands stilled.

"I….. Yes. On the train, I will." Sherlock gathered his courage, and hoped John would forgive him for not sharing sooner. For not telling him that Winter's Night was here in London, and the effect it had on him, the hold it once had.

"Okay, I'm done. I got the bugs programmed, and a small satellite uplink is hidden upstairs in the roof access. I'll be able to monitor the flat while we're gone," Violet said as she strode back in the room, saving Sherlock from feeling uncomfortable. "Lemme go get the dog from Mrs. Hudson, then we should be good."

"Did Mycroft really order up another car just for the dog?" John asked, as Sherlock went to the window to look for his brother. Violet flew done the stairs, and went for Mrs. Hudson's flat.

"Yes, Mycroft refused to let poor Bear ride with us, don't know why."

* * *

><p>Greg carefully followed the attendant down the narrow hall on the train, Mycroft at his heels. Anthea stayed behind with Violet in the bar car, the young American woman besotted with the concept of traveling by train. Sherlock and John were settling in their own private compartment, and apparently Greg and Mycroft were getting their own too.<p>

"How long of a trip is this?" Greg asked as they were ushered in the private room, their bags put away. Greg tipped the attendant, and they were left alone.

"Four hours."

"Oh, excellent. Guess I can get a nap in before I answer awkward questions from your parents about how long we've been having sex."

"What?" Mycroft asked him, face blank with surprise and dread.

"Have you never brought someone home before to meet your parents?"

"Never."

Greg found himself getting a little hot in the face at the conviction in Mycroft's voice when he said that word.

"Really? You haven't? I know you've had relationships before, hard not to notice, your, um, expertise," Greg felt the heat sweep up his neck, across his face as Mycroft settled in the seat across from him, one brow raised, his mouth quirking up in a wry smile.

"I've had casual liaisons, not relationships. I've never had one of those," Mycroft assured him, and Greg found he was surprised, and pleased.

"I'm the only one you've….."

"Been in a relationship with? Yes, and you'll be the only one, if I have my way."

The look Mycroft was giving him made Greg very glad that the door to their compartment wasn't glass, but a solid wooden affair. Greg eyed the distance between them, wishing it was nonexistent and that he could put his hands all over the spymaster.

"You seem fairly confident that this relationship is going to work out."

Greg fought off the blush as best he could, but he didn't bother hiding how turned on he was getting. Mycroft pulled out his mobile, and typed out a few messages, before tossing it on the seat next to him. The next thing to go was his coat, and then his suit jacket. Greg found his ability to think eroding with every piece of clothing Mycroft took off.

"I know this relationship is going to work out. I'm never wrong." Mycroft leaned over him, hands braced on the seat behind Greg's head. Greg found his gaze drawn to his lover's lips, and he was breathing faster.

"Yeah?" Greg sat up just enough to come within a hair's breadth of Mycroft's mouth, and his hands lifted to run along Mycroft's sides, down to his hips. They hadn't made love since the first time, as Mycroft had spent the last few days trying to find the Vicar and his missing men. Greg was certain Mycroft hadn't even slept.

"Oh yes." Mycroft whispered, and Greg couldn't take it anymore. He pressed his lips to Mycroft's, sweeping his tongue past his lips, boldly taking his mouth. Mycroft groaned, and Greg tugged at his hips, pulling Mycroft down.

The spymaster surprised him; instead of sitting beside him, Mycroft gently straddled his lap, his tongue matching him stroke for stroke. Greg laughed gently, and eagerly clutched Mycroft to him. The spymaster was being so careful, keeping his full weight on his knees, and away from Greg's lap, so as not to hurt him. But this meant that Mycroft's groin was in a wonderful position to be touched.

He swept a hand around Mycroft's hip, and palmed the full length hardening beneath the fabric. Mycroft gasped, and thrust forward the slightest amount, begging him to do it again. Greg rubbed his lover through his slacks, and Mycroft threw his head back, hands grabbing at his shoulders. Greg grinned, and rubbed harder, his thumb over the throbbing head. Mycroft groaned again, louder, and pushed his cock into Greg's hand.

Greg looked up at this man he held so intimately, and relished in the power he held over him. Greg took his chance, and before he lost his courage, sent both hands to Mycroft's belt buckle.

"What are you...oh, never mind," Mycroft gasped as Greg undid his belt and pulled it off, throwing it to the floor. The fly was open and his underwear tugged down before Mycroft could wrap his head around what was happening.

He understood clearly enough when Greg slipped his fingers tightly around his throbbing cock, making Mycroft jerk, his eyes close, his breathing erratic. He lifted up a bit more on his knees, and Greg grinned as his cock came closer to his face.

He consulted his nerves, his heart, and the insistent, raging desire burning through his body. In less than a second, Greg decided, and left Mycroft Holmes utterly speechless and eternally privileged when he took his hard cock in his mouth. Greg closed his eyes, and wondered at the taste, the feel of hard flesh and the sheer heat coming from the man he held in his mouth.

Mycroft was shaking, his muscles quivering, hands clenching and releasing their frantic grip on his shoulders. Greg gripped his hips, and tested his resolve. He relaxed as best he could, and sucked lightly, pulling him deeper. The taste was salty, and the heat so high, that Greg focused on the sensations, and welcomed them. This was farther than he ever thought he'd go; but Mycroft made him forget his fears, his nerves, the doubts that he wouldn't be enough to make him happy. That Gregory Lestrade could make someone happy.

So he did his best to make Mycroft happy, to show him how much he loved him, needed him, absolutely _wanted him. _He sucked, and wrapped his tongue around his lover, and pulled back, eliciting a deep gasping moan from the other man. And he sucked harder, pulling him back in, going deeper, and he felt a thrill race through him Mycroft whispered encouragement, sexy words of praise, making his heart race. He was pleasing this amazing man, and the sensations he was giving Mycroft was doing wonderful things to his insides too.

"Oh God, Greg…. More, please…"

_That's it sexy, beg for me….. You are mine….…._

He found his courage, and did what his body was demanding for him to do- he fucked Mycroft with his mouth, making the spymaster strangle a scream in shock and lust. He went faster, deeper, and harder. He took control of Mycroft, clasping his hips, and pulled his lover back and forth, slipping him in and out of his mouth, Mycroft letting him do what he wanted, following his pace.

There was nothing but the sound of ragged breathing, violent hot heat, Greg's overwhelming determination to leave his mark on Mycroft's soul and body. And he did, as his lover began to swell, harden impossibly, and Greg exulted, satisfaction flashing bright as Mycroft came. Greg pulled him deep, hands holding him tightly to him, and he swallowed every burst his lover gave him, tongue rubbing and teasing as Mycroft sobbed above him.

Greg gently pulled back, resting his head on Mycroft's stomach, and he felt a surge of intense satisfaction as the muscles beneath his face shivered. Mycroft was still coming down from his climax, and Greg gently eased him over to sit beside him on the bench seat.

"Greg…," Mycroft could manage nothing more, and he curled his long frame to Greg's side, resting his head on his shoulder, still shivering as tingles raced along his nerves.

"Mycroft?" he whispered to the poor man he'd laid to wonderful ruin.

"Yeah?"

"I love you. And yes, this relationship is going to last," and he smiled in his love's red-brown hair, breathing in his scent, never happier.

* * *

><p>"I'll take a mojito please, extra naughty," Violet flashed a ten pounder at the bartender, on top of the drink's price, and winked at the bedazzled man. "And my darling wants a martini."<p>

She sat at the train's bar, and checked over her shoulder to see how Anthea was doing. She grinned as her girl sent her a very lovely smile, right up until a man stepped between her and the gorgeous view of a green-eyed brunette. Violet eyed the tall, muscular man with the short hair, and dismissed him as too obvious, and not worth the flirt.

"I'll pay for the lady's drinks." A deep voice rumbled as he stepped up to the bar, his dress shirt sleeves pushed back to reveal old tattoos lacing around his wrists. Violet sent him a sidelong glance, realizing she couldn't rely on tact to get this one to leave her alone.

"This lady has her drink, and her girlfriend's drink, thank you though." Violet snagged both drinks from the nervous bartender, and went to move around the big man. He moved quickly for a big guy, a strong arm slipping around her waist, keeping her at the bar.

"Where you off to so fast, lovey? Won't you have a drink with me?" He grinned at her, obviously thinking his charm was sufficient enough to capture her attention. And if she went for men, she might have been interested, right up until he spoke, and the overwhelming icky arrogance that poured off him put her back up.

"I'm off to sit with my girlfriend. Let me go, now." Violet kept her cool, and shook her head the tiniest amount at Anthea, the other woman making to stand from their table, a concerned look on her face. Some men just needed a bigger hint.

"Oh, don't be that way. A pretty thing like you needs a man to keep her company on such a long trip. Name's John Woodley, and you lovey, you look like you need this man."


	47. Two Strangers On A Train

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me. (05/18/2014)**

**A/N: I'm a huge fan of the original Conan Doyle works. Hundreds of works have been published about ACD's works concerning the detective, and some of my favorite's are the ones concerning the mystery of the Great Detective's family and past before John Watson. I heartily encourage everyone to go pick up an original Sherlock Holmes mystery, written by the master himself. In this chapter, I touch on some of these theories, and some of my own.**

**Here in this chapter, I also pay homage to the creators of BBC's Sherlock, as they discussed resurrecting our beloved detective on a train... and the rest is history.**

**Read, enjoy, review. **

**Next chapter drops one week from today, Sunday morning.**

* * *

><p><strong>C<strong>**hapter Forty Seven**

"_**Two Strangers On A Train"**_

**December 23****rd****, Afternoon. **

Anthea watched as Violet headed for the bar, and went back to enjoying the passing scenery outside the bar car windows. The snowfall was thicker out in the country, great fields of white as far as the eye could see, the afternoon sun bright, reflecting of the snow. The old antique bar car was paneled in rich deep oaks and red maple wood accents, the finish on the wood shiny and smooth. Violet was so enamored of it that Anthea caved, and agreed to spend some time in the bar car, instead of working on the stack of reports she'd brought along to read while traveling.

Her mobile buzzed, and Anthea pulled it out, checking quickly on Violet again at the bar. She was dazzling the bartender, the poor man looking like she'd asked him if he wanted a million pounds and a kiss.

**Anything to report? –MH**

Anthea looked discretely over her shoulder, pretending to fuss with her shoulder bag while perusing the car, and the other occupants. The men she wanted to see were sitting as far from her and Violet's table as they could get, without being outside. They were still there, pretending to be drinking, and being very obvious about it too. _Americans. Nothing subtle about them._

**They are still here, watching Violet and I. No aggressive moves. –A**

**Report if anything happens. Do not disturb for the next hour. –MH**

Anthea chuckled softly to herself, reading into Mycroft's instruction clearly. He was in their private compartment, alone, with Gregory Lestrade. She knew full well what those two men were doing.

Anthea looked up again, to see a large man talking to Violet at the bar. He was heavily muscled, mid-forties, tattooed yet dressed like a business man from downtown London. Not that well off men couldn't have tattoos; it was that he acted, and moved, like an old school bruiser, a man well versed in using his fists instead of his brain. Such a mode of dressing and behavior were usually at odds with each other.

She caught Violet's eye, standing a little as the man made another pass at her girl. Violet shook her head, and Anthea slowly sat, something about the man making her nervous. He was too predatory, overplaying the charm. Anthea shot to her feet, the Vicar's men behind her forgotten, after the large man put his arm around Violet, the poor girl stuck holding their drinks, and doing her best not to lose her temper. Violet tried to shake her head, to tell her to stay away, but Anthea gave that up when she saw the girl's amethyst eyes go storm dark, just like her uncles' did when they were about to flay someone alive.

Anthea swept away from their table, hand brushing against the reassuring presence of her pistol tucked beneath her breasts, hidden under her suit jacket. Anthea moved as fast as she could, dodging tables, heading for the bar, moving easily with the rocking of the train.

Violet was opening her mouth to say something scandalous, and the body language of the man she was about to say it to just screamed bad confrontational skills. Anthea didn't want to risk an incident she couldn't talk Violet out of, seeing as how they were stuck in a large wood and metal box barreling through the countryside, with no backup they could reveal without blowing their plan.

"Come with me, Lovey. I've a private room, with plenty of things to stir the blood. I can stir you up just fine too," the older man said to Violet, and Anthea put on more speed to get to her girlfriend before things got out of hand.

"Violet, darling. Need help with those drinks?" Anthea purred, slipping up beside Violet and the stranger, deliberately moving in between the man and her girlfriend, reaching for her martini. She kissed Violet, a slow sultry lip lock that made Violet blink rapidly in shock and delight, temporarily taming her outrage.

Violet swallowed back the obscenities she surely would have let fly if Anthea hadn't come over. Anthea took her drink from Violet, sipping lightly before moving closer to Violet. The big man dropped his arm, and Anthea ignored him as if he didn't exist, roping her free arm around Violet and steering her away. "I thought you'd forgotten all about me. I was getting lonely over there at our table."

Anthea nudged Violet away, giving her a sweet smile that begged her to trust her, to behave and just go. Anthea would handle Mr. Pushy. Violet walked off, and Anthea saw the unspoken promise in her eyes that she would not hold back on him if he gave Anthea trouble. Thankfully Violet knew that they were being watched by the Vicar's men, and they could not afford a scene on this trip.

"Hey now lovey, don't rush off, there's no need to be so shy," he rumbled, and Anthea heard a trace of the docks in his voice, well hidden beneath the tutored accent he affected. Born a brute, pretending to be a gentleman. Explained his behavior.

"'Lovey', as you so impolitely addressed her, is not interested," Anthea said, her voice level and cool, expression bland, yet she let a trace of anger glimmer around her eyes. He dared to touch a young woman, unwanted and uninterested. _What. A. Pig_. "Let's not ruin this beautiful trip by being rude to each other. As you put your hands on her without her permission, I am quite justified in asking for your removal from the carriage. Although, I do realize we all have to travel together for the foreseeable future. So she will stay with me, while you shall go elsewhere, preferably someplace I don't need to see you."

He leaned back on the old wooden bar, and Anthea refused to be intimidated by the menacing glower he sent her and his belligerent attitude. "I won't be leaving this car, and maybe Lovey wants a man. She's a fine, hot little piece. She would feel just perfect under me. Maybe I should ask her again."

_Disgusting pig. I will not shoot him, I will not shoot him…_

Anthea sighed internally, hating the crude, stupid people of the world more and more with each passing day. Mycroft Holmes had spoiled her for the rest of the human race in that department. Mycroft would never, ever speak to a woman in such a manner.

"You will be leaving," Anthea murmured, a small smile flirting about her lips.

She met his stare, and nodded her head to the end of the bar. One of the train's security personnel was standing at attention, focused on the two of them, his hand on his radio. The bruiser looked, and Anthea felt a surge of triumph as he grimaced, slowly reaching for his own abandoned drink on the bar. The look he sent her was mean enough to strip varnish from wood, and she merely smiled pleasantly at him in return.

The big man downed the remains of his drink, and picked up his jacket from the stool beside him, and pushed away from the bar. He glared at the security guard, and paused at Anthea's side. He leaned down from his impressive height, and whispered in her ear.

"Be careful, you bossy bitch. One day you won't have a fucking security guard watching out for you," he threatened, and Anthea merely raised a brow at him, not a trace of fear anywhere about her. She had no fears of being caught alone with this man; she had taken down far deadlier. And any man lucky enough to hurt her, or Violet? Mycroft Holmes would destroy him. "No one denies John Woodley anything. I'll be seeing Lovey again, and you."

Anthea didn't react, not knowing the name, and not caring one wit who he was, or who he thought he was. _Arrogant ass_. He stood and pushed past her, heading for the exit to the bar car. Anthea watched him leave, and turned back to her table after giving the security guard a nod of thanks. Big man stormed from the car, and Anthea forgot all about him as she rejoined her irate girlfriend. Soothing the Holmes temper was something Anthea practiced daily.

…

* * *

><p>"Comfy?" John asked him, and Sherlock hummed his affirmation from his position in John's lap. John was at the window, and Sherlock stretched out on his back along the bench seat, head in John's lap, their hands tangled together over Sherlock's head, next to his wild mop of curls.<p>

"Very comfy," he finally whispered, moving his head to gaze up at his doctor.

John felt sick laying down, and preferred to stay sitting upright as the train moved through the snowy landscape. His head was very touchy, tender and prone to giving him a constant ache.

Sherlock didn't care much for watching the scenery, and found his thoughts absorbed by the loving touch of his doctor. John was playing with his hair again, in a manner that suggested it was entirely unconscious. And Sherlock appreciated the touch all the more for that. They had been like this for the better part of an hour, relaxed and content to be together, no need for words.

"That dog can sleep anywhere, can't he?"

John was referring to the Estrela, who was firmly ensconced on the opposing seat, snoring into the armrest, so large he took up the whole seat. Sherlock hummed again, content to be petted, not unlike the big animal. John loved to tug on the lock of hair that always fell over his eyes, pulling out the curl, and letting it go to bounce back amongst the others.

Sherlock's eyes traced the planes of John's face, as John stared back down at him. He was so content, so at peace, that he was happy to live in this quiet moment forever. No rioting thoughts, no deductions blinding him to the exclusion of all else; he was centered in his stormy life. John centered him, anchored him; kept the tempest at bay.

Sherlock saw the long days in the desert sun, the harsh winds of the cold winter mountains in the lines on the doctor's handsome face. He saw the years of endless kindness and laughter, the easy and relentless patience in his eyes. The hands that caressed him held more talent and skill than any other man Sherlock knew, healer and lover all in one. The strength in his shoulders, the way he carried himself was ever the soldier; John had ingrained the army so deeply within his psyche that he would never expunge it. And Sherlock knew it was all the finest parts that John kept; the resolve, determination, loyalty, and depthless honor. John Watson was soldier, a warrior, but without the malicious edge of violence that most men carried. For him, violence was the means by which the innocent, the defenseless, were protected, cherished. And John did it so well.

"What are you looking at, love?"

Sherlock didn't realize John was talking to him until his doctor raised a brow at him in question. He shook himself from his reverie, and said the first thing that popped into his head.

"I don't deserve you."

"What? Shush, don't be stupid."

"No, I really don't deserve you, John," Sherlock said, completely serious. Meaning every word. John was too good of a man to be with someone like him, to love someone like him. "You are amazing, boundless in worth and quality. A doctor, soldier, best friend. Endlessly patient, brave beyond the measure of words."

John bit his lip, and blinked rapidly, as if he had something in his eyes. His fingers stilled in Sherlock's hair, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock spoke first.

"I'm a drug addict, a man who solves crimes to avoid getting high. I'm a man who obsesses, who pries apart the world to see everything, no matter how personal or intimate, until all is laid bare before me. I lack compassion, understanding, and I have no social graces, nor do I care to obtain any."

He dragged in a breath, and kept going. "I spent over thirty years of my life alone, on purpose, refining my skills, my mind, and my talents, to keep up with the natural born genius of an older brother I should never have measured myself against. And to protect myself against the other, who would not have hesitated to kill me if I showed any weakness. Doing so left me cold, hard, and sociopathic."

"Sherlock, stop…."

"No, please. Let me finish," Sherlock asked softly, and dragged in a lungful of air. "The years before you came into my life are alternately crystal clear in their emptiness, and hazy from addiction. I haven't told you something."

_Don't be a coward, tell him. Mean the apology. He may forgive you. You'll deserve it if he doesn't._

"You've been trying for a few days now, love. Not just at the crime scene, Sherlock. I've seen you carrying a secret since the night Tom broke into the flat," the doctor said, and Sherlock blinked at him in surprise.

"You have?" Sherlock asked, wondering how. They were so busy the last week dealing with Mary and the baby, the Vicar, all of it, that there was no way John knew he was holding something back.

"Yeah. I know you better than anyone in this world, Sherlock Holmes. I love you. You haven't said anything because you've been afraid of what I'd think."

Sherlock was shocked, utterly floored by John's insight. He gaped at John, before snapping his mouth shut, and narrowing his eyes at his lover as he smiled smugly.

"Go on then, tell me. I promise to still love you afterwards."

"Well, I can't recall how I was going to say it now; stole the wind out from my grand confession," Sherlock grumbled, and he blinked in astonishment as John tapped him lightly on the nose with a fingertip. Like Sherlock did when Bear misbehaved. Sherlock glowered, but the words tumbled out anyway.

"Oh fine. I used to be addicted to a designer drug named Winter's Night after Lestrade and I first started working together. He needed my help tracking down the suppliers, shutting down the drug ring. One of the few cases left unfinished, due to the fact the drug lord in question ended up dead in the Thames, and the drug vanished from the streets."

"Doesn't sound that bad. I know you're an addict. I've seen you high before, Sherlock. I don't like it, obviously, but I won't judge you for having a disease like addiction. Judging never helps anyone stay sober."

"That's not all. The reason the drug disappeared years ago is because it was unstable, it had to stay cold, or it would break down incredibly fast. And the drug had to be tailored to a specific person, so no fast sales on street corners. But it was worth it to those who wanted it. Highly addictive, incredibly dangerous."

"Go on…."

"If the drug lord making it had learned how to stabilize it, created a generic dosage, then Winter's Night would have overrun London, then England, everywhere. And I…I learned how to stabilize the drug. I was days away from going insane and mass producing it myself when the drug lord died, and my suppliers disappeared."

"What...Dear God, Sherlock."

"Mycroft dragged me kicking and screaming into a dark room, and sat on me for weeks, forcing me sober. It took everything I had not to come out of that room a broken wreck of a man."

"Christ, Sherlock….."

"It's back," Sherlock said, and he watched the emotions race across the doctor's face. Fear was there, and Sherlock knew it was because John was terrified he would use it again. Be trapped by a drug for which he would have turned criminal. "Someone is trying to perfect Winter's Night. The core ingredient was being grown at the nursery, the drug drove the gardener insane and eventually made him snap, kill the woman, and then he died from a bad dose. Tom was high on it the night he came for me after Molly kissed me. It's spreading through London again."

John looked like he was going to say something, but Sherlock beat him to it again.

"And he got some on me during the fight," he dragged in a deep lungful, afraid to see John's reaction, but unable to look away. "It's why I jumped you like that afterwards."

Sherlock couldn't stop, he dragged in more air to keep confessing, waiting for John to turn on him in disgust….

"And looking back now, the man who attacked Violet at the flat, he was most likely not there to kill her at all, but afflicted by a bad dose as well. He was at the nursery that day, and then came to our flat that night. Not a coincidence. Something about either myself or Violet drew him there, or he was sent."

More air in, the words chaotic, thoughts starting to circle each other…

"It gives you a solid, ecstatic high, or drives you insane, or kills you, at its current stage….."

"Okay, hold on. Stop talking for a minute," John demanded, and he put a hand to his temple, head hurting and Sherlock's rambling confession disturbing his mental peace. Sherlock brought his arms down, wrapping his hands over his stomach nervously as he looked up at John, the doctor closing his eyes, rubbing at his face.

"John? There's more, the chemist who was taken…."

"Shush. Just give me another minute."

Sherlock sighed silently, finding himself feeling a creeping sense of sick nerves twisting his gut, his once peaceful thoughts rioting. John mad at him used to be no big deal; but now that love was between them, having John mad at him, disappointed in him, terrified Sherlock to his core. He feared more than anything the day that John grew tired of him, his once infinite patience exhausted, and he left, destroying Sherlock in the process. It terrified him as much as the thought that John would die, and leave him alone.

Sherlock cast a quick glance at John, who was quiet, head down, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. His eyes were shut, denying Sherlock the chance see what he was thinking, and feeling by the color of his eyes. Sherlock was dreading his lover's reaction, and he resisted the urge to nag him for a response, anything. Being quiet was so hard sometimes.

"Have you taken it on purpose since the drug's resurfaced?" John asked him suddenly, making Sherlock jump, holding his breath. His eyes were darker than usual, strong emotions running through him. "Or gone looking for a supplier so you could take it?"

"No!"

"Shhh, easy. I'm not doubting you, I just had to make sure," his doctor said, hand burying itself in riotous curls once again. "I meant it Sherlock, I still love you. Just tell me these things sooner, okay? The longer you hold something back, the worse it gets."

"Oh."

"Hhhmmm, yes 'oh'," John murmured, and Sherlock rolled over on his side, burrowing his face in John's stomach, curling his long legs up against the seat cushions. John sighed, and draped his arms over Sherlock's shoulders, knowing his detective was seeking comfort without asking for it.

"I'm sorry," came the mumbled apology, and Sherlock didn't see the tiny grin on John's face at the heartfelt words. "I really haven't told you much about the pre-John years."

"No you haven't. And it is okay, you don't have to tell me if some things are too personal. As long as you aren't hiding a major secret, like you got married or had a kid or invented a death ray device or something."

"No marriage-wretched idea- and no sex, so no offspring. Death ray sounds promising."

"It would, to you," John teased him, and Sherlock snuggled closer, making John jump the slightest amount as his detective rubbed his head over his lap. Sherlock liked how that felt, and did it again. "Well, if you can trust me to keep you together on this case, how about once we get home, we stop the drug, rescue the chemist if he's still alive and if Scotland Yard hasn't found him yet, and find out who attacked Violet and why, and then relax."

Sherlock stopped making John jump, his head tilting up to meet John's eyes. He saw nothing but confidence and pride in those deep blue eyes, and that never-ending wellspring of patience.

"Once we survive the holidays with my parents, and take out the Vicar, I would like that."

"Good. Now how about you get back to that thing you were doing in my lap. That was nice."

"No sex until your head is better."

"I'm the doctor here, what I say goes," John said, and Sherlock could feel the heat under the side of his face, burning through the fabric of John's rough trousers. He rubbed his face over the hardening heat again, and John moaned lightly. "And I wasn't thinking sex, more like heavy petting and some snogging but sex sounds really nice…."

"Well, if the doctor says sex who am I to argue? I'm thinking this time we can try this position I read about on your laptop… Wait a minute." Sherlock rolled off of John so fast he startled the dog, the big brute shaking his head, ears flopping. Bear stared at the detective, tail thumping on the seat.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"I'm not having sex with the dog in here."

"Oh my God," John watched in disbelief as Sherlock shooed Bear off the seat and towards the door.

"Exactly! Staring at us, nosing in wherever…. Not happening."

"Where are you taking the dog? I don't care! Sherlock, get back here!" John yelled at him as he took Bear by his collar and walked him out of their compartment, down the hall to his brother's. Sherlock tested the door, found it locked, took less than second popping said lock, and opened the door.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft yelled in surprise, and Sherlock averted his eyes, and Bear bounded through the door, big tail wagging excitedly. Greg laughed as the dog jumped him, and Mycroft shot his little brother nasty looks.

"Watch him for me, I'm about to have sex with John. I'll be back," Sherlock said to the startled men in the compartment, still not looking (he had NO desire to see his brother or friend partially dressed), and started to slide the door shut. "No complaining, you've already had your turn!"

"You prat!" Mycroft shouted at him as he shut the door, and Sherlock ran back down the hall, jumping into his compartment and slamming shut the door, locking it. He was laughing so hard he dissolved into giggles, and John's flabbergasted face sent him off again.

"You didn't!"

"Yes, yes I did. Come here, Doctor Watson."

Sherlock pounced, landing on the smaller man with far more control than his leap suggested, making John fall over on his back, head cradled gently in Sherlock's arms. He was panting fast with laughter, and twitched his hips enough to get them between John's thighs, rubbing his groin over the doctor's.

"Oh, that's…hot….fuck me," John gasped as Sherlock nuzzled at his neck, licking the salty hot skin as John blushed. John always blushed when Sherlock got aggressive with him. He kissed and licked, following the blush up his strong neck, across the firm jaw, and swept in for a kiss, muffling John's groans as he rubbed his cock over the man beneath him. Hips rubbing, firm enough to make contact through layers of clothing, hard cock to hard cock. He felt John shake under him, and groaned eagerly, right up until John stopped kissing him back.

"How's your head?" Sherlock whispered as he lifted away from the kiss, letting John breathe.

John was going white, eyes dark with desire, but with a tremor to his lips that had nothing to do with passion. Sherlock was alarmed, and lifted his weight from the man in his arms, a hand pressed gently to John's temple. His doctor was breathing fast, same as him, but Sherlock felt John moan silently as he closed his eyes.

"I'm… going to get sick, love. Lemme up," John whispered hoarsely, and Sherlock scrambled off of John, his doctor rolling of the bench seat to land in an awkward crouch on the floor. Sherlock felt sick himself, having forgotten how badly laying down made John feel.

_I'm an idiot, a blind fool. Selfish, so selfish… I'm sorry John._

Sherlock swore softly under his breath, and carefully helped John to his feet, holding the doctor to his chest as he swayed. John lifted his arms, slowly, and wrapped them around Sherlock's neck, resting his head in that favorite spot of his, right under Sherlock's chin. The detective held his doctor, a hand rubbing up and down his back as John leaned on him for support.

"I'm sorry, I'm such an idiot," he whispered to the man in his arms, feeling wretched.

"No need to be sorry, I'm the one who ought to know better. I'm a bleeding doctor, and here I am acting like a horny teenager, with a serious concussion no less," his doctor said against his neck, his breath making Sherlock shiver in response, even though the passion was fading fast. John felt it, and pressed a wet and hot kiss to his neck, making Sherlock shiver again. He felt John smile against his neck, and his doctor's arms shifted.

John pulled back the smallest amount, and Sherlock looked down at him. His color was returning, and his doctor wasn't looking as pale. He was due for some painkillers, and needed something to eat with the pills. He was thinking he might want to go get his doctor some food when John kissed him.

Sherlock stopped thinking, as John's mouth moved on his, his lips skilled and firm. He closed his eyes, and brought his hands to John's face, tilting his head. Sparks lit off behind his closed lids, lips tingling, the sounds of the train falling away, his hands shaking gently as John pulled back the barest amount.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?" He had barely enough ability left to form that simple word, thoughts sluggish under the effect his doctor's touch had on him. John taught him a lot about making love, and when he chose, he could still knock Sherlock's IQ down a few points with just a kiss.

"How about we snuggle?"

Sherlock broke out in a short burst of laughter, his deep voice rumbling in the small room. "I think we can do that. I'll go get you something to eat first, to take with your pills."

"Okay…. Want me to come with you? I feel better…"

"Nope. Stay here, Dr. Watson. I will be back. Nothing strenuous while I'm gone."

"I can't figure I'll be doing anything strenuous without you here, too."

"Be right back then."

Sherlock kissed John quickly on the lips, and waited until his lover was safely sitting on the bench seat before leaving the room. He checked down the hall towards his brother's room, and saw the Estrela laying in the hall, leash trailing under the door into the room. Mycroft had a way around everything. Bear thumped his tail once in greeting, and Sherlock smiled at the great beast before turning and walking down the hall towards the bar car.

Violet and Anthea should still be there, and Sherlock had seen a cooler beside the bar, full of small salads and sandwiches. Nothing too heavy for his doctor, something light to settle his stomach on the pills. Sherlock was watching the floor when he heard the door at the end of the hall crash open.

Sherlock looked up, to see a large man in a suit, sleeves rolled up to show old cartel tattoos storming from the bar car. He slammed the door shut, the noise reverberating down the hallway. He drew up short when he saw Sherlock in the hall, standing to his full height. The way he was standing, and the rising red on his neck said he was angry, nearly to the point of violence. It was the look in his eyes that made Sherlock look past the expensive suit, to the person underneath.

_Some of the tattoos are twenty years old by the designs. Typical of that old drug cartel that ran out of the docks, the one fronted by the loan sharks. Scars on hands says he was a bruiser, muscle mass and way he moves says he was good at it too._

_Successful now, wearing enough gold on that pinkie ring and that watch to buy a third world country. That's a Westwood he's wearing, expensive taste. Doesn't flatter him at all, style is meant for a slimmer, shorter physique. He's mid-forties, excellent shape, with an old drug habit from the marks on his arms, but clean for a long time. Sober for over ten years, from his appearance. Dog hairs on his trousers; has a large breed dog, Rottweiler or Doberman from the hair colors and distribution._

_Something happened in the bar to make him mad. Wonder what it was?_

_He looks familiar. Like I've seen him before, but I cannot recall. Where have I seen him?_

Sherlock didn't pause, kept walking forward down the hall, towards the man standing in his way. The haunting sense of familiarity was annoying, but John was more important than figuring out who this man was. It was entirely possible, considering the tattoos and scars, that Sherlock had seen him at Scotland Yard at some point, looking far less reputable than he did now. Odds are he saw him waiting to be processed or released for some boring and common crime or another.

The big man was blocking the door, a very expensive suit jacket mangled in his large fist. Sherlock rolled his eyes, figuring the man must have wealth in excess if he was comfortable destroying such a lovely piece. Although not everyone appreciated fine tailoring like Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock felt the train shift under his feet as he approached the retired knee-breaker, and Sherlock merely raised a brow in question as the bigger man waited until the last second to move. He shifted over the barest amount to let Sherlock reach for the door to the bar car. The train was slowing, preparing to stop at small station before beginning the longer portion of their trip deeper into the English countryside.

Sherlock ignored the glowering, silent man, aware he was trying to intimidate him with his demeanor and refusal to move a polite distance away, but Sherlock didn't feel a flicker of fear or nerves. He pulled open the door, and the change in air pressure pulled a breeze into the hall, carrying the chatter of inebriated bar patrons and laughter. The cooler air brushed over the old bruiser, and carried a faint flowery scent to Sherlock's senses. Strange for a man so obvious in his desire to appear masculine to be wearing a floral cologne, but he was not one to judge someone's personal grooming decisions. At least he bathed.

The old bruiser backed up more as Sherlock whipped the door open wider, right into his personal space, forcing him past the detective, farther down the hall. Sherlock ignored the cracking of knuckles, aware that too many people were staring at the doorway, some of them recognizing him, pointing at him. The old bruiser wasn't going to make a move, not while all those eyes were pointing this way. Sherlock could feel the rage practically pouring off of the stranger, and figured he was just itching for a fight. And if they hadn't been playing vacationing family for the Vicar's men, Sherlock wouldn't mind a tussle at all.

Sherlock stepped in, and let the door swing shut, ignoring the people whispering, and forgetting the bruiser in the hall. He saw his niece and Mycroft's assistant occupying a table halfway between the door and the bar, and Sherlock considered walking over to say hello, but that meant making small talk, and he wasn't up for it right now. Sherlock spied the cooler with the snack foods, and walked past the table holding the Vicar's men on his way to the bar.

Their plan to draw the Vicar out of London and into their literal home territory was working, these men some of the few he had left after the last week. According to Mycroft, nearly a third of the Vicar's people were dead, and the CIA had refused to send more. Whoever was assisting them in this endeavor was wheedling down The Vicar's men at an astounding rate.

Learning that Mycroft hadn't sent the sniper, nor had his people been the ones to save them at the crime scene shooting earlier in the week was ruffling Sherlock's calm. A CIA operative had also been shot on Baker Street, the same night they had gone to rescue Mary from Leinster Gardens. There was something about this whole situation that wasn't adding up. Mycroft was of the opinion that it was either a group settling a debt they owed Sherlock, or it was a foreign agency using this situation to destroy one of the CIA's strongest assets. Whether it was the Americans trying to clean up Williamson's corruption was also up for debate at this point.

Mary filled in Violet on everything she could in the morning hours before they left, the young hacker sitting with Mary on her bed, computer in her lap, doing something. Whatever Violet was doing with the information Mary was feeding her was actually beyond Sherlock's expertise. He was comfortable with his brother's systems, but the programs and codes Violet used were indecipherable to him. So Mary spent a handful of hours confessing sins to Violet, and then Violet had sent some of it on to Mycroft, presumably after their hacker-cum-niece verified it and structured the information. Sherlock knew it was good, by the gleam in his brother's eyes, and the way he disappeared briefly before Sherlock left with John and Violet for 221B to pack.

Sherlock pulled open the cooler, and snatched up a handful of cold sandwiches, making sure that one was ham and cheese for John. Sherlock ignored the not so subtle stares of the Vicar's men, and the fans he apparently had on the train. He went to the bar, paid for the sandwiches, and was about to leave when Anthea caught his eye, her expression saying clearly that something was wrong.

He looked at his niece, and Sherlock immediately headed for the women's table at the state of his niece. She was angry, angrier than Sherlock had ever seen her, and she kept throwing glares over her shoulder at the bar car's door.

"What happened? Who bothered you?" Sherlock demanded, once he was close enough to see that Violet's dress was askew around her waist, as if someone had grabbed her. Her face was flushed, her eyes snapping vivid purple, and she had bit her lip so hard the old split on it had reopened a little.

"Just some douchebag who wouldn't take no for an answer," Violet muttered under her breath, glaring at the door one more time. Sherlock looked too, and realized that since no one was dead or bleeding in here, that whoever it was who had bothered Violet must have just left. Which meant the retired bruiser.

"What did he do? The big man with the tattoos?"

"All he did was hit on her, and grab her around the waist. I talked him out of the bar car. He left without incident. He did insinuate he would try again, though." It was Anthea who answered him, and Sherlock set his jaw, about to walk from the car and find the fool who dared touch his blood. Anthea grabbed his hand as he was about to leave, tugging him back. "Sherlock, relax. He's gone, he won't bother her again, not on the train. Nothing but a pushy jerk, not worth the trouble."

"He called you a bitch, 'Thea! That's not cool! I don't give a flying fuck who this Mr. John- I'm-a-douche-Woodley thinks he is, we should arrange an accident. I'm sure Sherlock and I can find an open window somewhere on this train," said Violet, slamming back the remainder of her drink, smacking the glass back to the table. "Let's go commit murder on the rails, Sherlock. Between the two of us, I know damn well we'll get away with it."

It was his niece's very serious desire to kill the asshole who had bothered her and insulted Anthea that reigned in Sherlock's temper. She was too valuable, too important, too much _his_, for her to be doing something so dangerous. Violet got up from her chair, and was about to storm away when Sherlock caught her around the waist and pulled her to him. She stiffened up, so mad she was shaking. She was a Holmes for certain, with this temper.

She resisted the affection, right up until he pressed a kiss to her cheek, gently bumping his forehead to Violet's. She sighed, and dropped her head to his shoulder, hugging him back. He held his niece, nose buried in her raven black hair, smelling the lilacs in the shampoo she used, same as Anthea's.

It was that scent that nudged at him, pulled a memory out of the distant past. His mind palace shook, as an image flung itself free from the drug-induced haze of his bad years. It was of a man, younger in this memory, a man covered in tattoos, handcuffed amongst dozens of others as Scotland Yard officers and a younger Lestrade processed the arrests of the first makers of Winter's Night.

Many of the men had been released after Sherlock had given the final clues to Lestrade about where to find the drug chemist's warehouse. It was Sherlock's addiction that had prompted the magistrates into releasing a majority of the men arrested, as they didn't want to risk his testimony in court unless it was for the higher ranking cartel members. It was the boss who was dead, and the drug dead with him, so the majority of the case had fallen apart.

The memory was of the retired bruiser, much older now obviously, his status changed by his clothes and demeanor. The floral scent he had caught as he passed the bigger man was that of the Christmas Rose, a variation of the morning glory flower. It was a hallucinogen and the primary ingredient in Winter's Night.

"What did you say his name was?" Sherlock whispered to his niece, a roaring in his ears, heart pumping fast.

"Asshole? John Woodley. Why?" She sniffled, lifting her head to plant a kiss on his cheek. She caught the look on his face, as Sherlock turned to look at the doorway. "Do you wanna kill him after all? Let's go."

"I know him. Anthea, Violet, come with me now," Sherlock dropped the sandwiches into his jacket pockets, grabbed Violet's wrist, Anthea's in his other hand, and unceremoniously towed the girls after him. He left the bar car with the girls, hearing the loud whispers at their abrupt departure.

"Sherlock! What are you doing?" Anthea whispered, breaking free but still following him and Violet as Sherlock tugged his niece behind him down the hall to his brother's compartment. Bear was no longer in the hall, and Sherlock figured that meant it was safe to leave the girls in here.

He threw open the door, glad Lestrade and Mycroft were dressed. Sherlock gently pushed Violet over the threshold, Anthea stepping in quickly before he could toss her in as well.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft stood from his seat, Bear sleeping against the wall under the window. The train was stopping, buildings flashing by as it entered the small village before the longest stretch of the trip.

"They stay in here until I get back. No one leaves," he ordered, pulling shut the door, turning for his room and John. "I will be right back."

Sherlock ran lightly for his room, and threw open the door, startling John. The doctor held a hand to his head, and Sherlock knew from the expression on his face that John would not be able to help him with this. That meant Mycroft.

"John, up now, hurry," Sherlock gave him no time to argue, helping the shorter man to his feet, taking half his weight and damn near carrying him back to Mycroft's room. His brother was at the door, a confused and exasperated look on his face, Violet at his shoulder, watching.

"Sherlock, what is going on?" John asked, as Sherlock pushed John gently over the threshold into a room rapidly being filled up with too many people. The train was slowing even more, and Sherlock knew he had minutes left to find the bruiser before he had a chance to get off. Sherlock slipped his hand under the back of John's jacket, snagging his gun from his waistband and tucking it in his own lightning fast. John spun fast, too fast, Greg reaching up to catch him before he fell.

"I'll explain once we get back. Anthea's armed, everyone stay here with her. Mycroft, get Lestrade's gun, move it," he ordered, looking up and down the long hall, watching. The bruiser named John Woodley had gone somewhere, and he had to find him fast. "No one leaves Violet alone, and John and Lestrade can't keep up. I'm serious, no one leave Violet alone! Stay here."

It was his order for his brother to get a weapon that made Mycroft move. He spun, and went straight to Greg, pulling a move identical to Sherlock's, neatly extricating the DI's well-hidden weapon. Lestrade made to stop him, but Mycroft avoided his hands easily and joined his little brother back at the door. Sherlock ignored the questions, and slammed the door shut on his family, keeping them in one place.

He had to trust that they would listen to him, and stay locked up in that room. The train was nearly stopped; they had little time before they reached the station. Sherlock took a gamble and headed away from the long hall and its other compartments; he went towards the rear, the carriages farthest from the bar car. Mycroft was at his side, clicking the safety off the gun, tucking it under his jacket out of sight.

"Explain, brother."

"A man accosted Violet in the bar car not ten minutes ago. He is the drug lord currently attempting to revive Winter's Night, and I suspect that he sent that madman after Violet last week as well. His name is John Woodley, and I saw him years ago when Lestrade took down most of the cartel's men," he said, eyes searching the hall, and they exited their car and went through the doors to the next. People were starting to exit their rooms, carrying luggage, talking loudly, slowing their progress.

"Winter's Night? When were you going to tell me it was back?" Mycroft barked out, but he got a look on his face that said he just realized what else Sherlock said. "He assaulted Violet? Is that why we have the guns?"

"I just did. Doesn't matter now. Tall man, mid-forties, scars, cartel tattoos around twenty years old. Short hair, wearing a mistreated Westwood." Sherlock spat out the description, knowing Mycroft would see the man as soon as he in the crowd, even with such sparse details. Sherlock pointed down the hall, towards a gathering crowd of people. "And I heartily support shooting first, interrogating a corpse later."

The train was nearly stopped, the station visible outside the windows, people waiting at the doors to be let off. The platform wasn't overflowing, but this was one of the last afternoon trains from London, so there were plenty of people waiting out there, enough to make things harder in finding Woodley.

"Dammit, we may be too late, he'll be getting off here I know it. He knew who I was when we passed outside the bar car earlier. He won't risk staying. Hurry."

The brothers ran for the nearest door, pushing through the crowd to the platform. Mycroft had his mobile out, texting his people they had undercover on the train. Sherlock walked out from the train, scanning the crowd for the tall man.

It was a small movement, but enough for Sherlock to know who it was. Woodley was on the far end of the platform, two men in dark jackets walking beside him, out to the small parking lot through a side exit.

"Mycroft! There!" Sherlock ran, dodging round luggage and people alike, Mycroft cutting through the crowd at his left, both brothers heading for the exit to the car lot.

Woodley was out of sight, and Sherlock knew he wouldn't be able to catch up in time to prevent him from getting away. He may be able to see what vehicle they used, though. He put on more speed, ignoring the shouts from people he knocked into as he ran. Mycroft was too far behind, his brother out of shape and used to letting others do his running.

Sherlock burst through the side exit, into the bright winter light, temporarily blinded by the white glare. He put his hand up to shield his eyes, just as a body barreled into him from the side, knocking him to the cold wet pavement. He hit hard, and the air left his lungs in a rush. Sherlock swung at the figure dressed in black on top of him. It was one of the men he saw with Woodley heading this way, and he wasn't happy about being followed. The knife in his hand proved just how pissed he was.

Sherlock caught him in the face with his fist, but the man on top of him just shrugged off the blow, lifting his arm to bring down the blade. He grabbed his attacker's wrist, stopping the knife point inches from his neck. A part of him heard Mycroft shouting his name, but he was too busy to shout back.

His grip slipped, and Sherlock could see nothing but the glare of the harsh winter sun in his eyes, and the knife point slowly descending towards his neck. So he never saw the man come out from the glare, a booted foot swinging up from the ground, cracking across the head of the man trying to kill him. His attacker rolled off of him, holding his bleeding head, knife dropped in the slush on the pavement.

Mycroft was nearly to the car lot exit, shouting, gun in his hand. Sherlock's attacker looked quickly over his shoulder at the spymaster, then at the tall shadow standing over the detective. He cut his losses, and ran deeper into the lot. Mycroft ran out to the lot just as Woodley's man disappeared among the cars.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft shouted as he came out into the light, gun up, eyes looking to where his brother's attacker disappeared, and the man standing over him.

Sherlock looked up at the man obscured by the bright sun, and blinked as a hand came down to him, palm out. Sherlock took it, and a powerful grip pulled him easily to his feet. Sherlock brushed off his slacks, eyeing the young man who had saved him from Woodley's man.

_Military, army. Recent discharge from service? Holiday leave? Has calluses on his hands from weapon's grips. Early twenties, seen foreign service. Iraq perhaps? Skin is dark, tanned, short military cut, plenty of action._

"You okay, sir? Want me to call the police?" Asked the young soldier, his tags hanging free over his dark tee, hands tucked in his jean pockets. He had on a thin brown leather jacket, and seemed oblivious to the cold damp air. "I saw him jump you as I was coming in, picking up my girl. Thinking he was a mugger, but he really wanted to kill you."

"No, thank you. You handled him nicely," Sherlock smiled at the young man, who just grinned at him. Mycroft dropped the gun, and came over to his brother, hand coming up to grab his shoulder in relief. Sherlock was surprised, but held his peace, not wanting to draw attention to the rare show of affection.

"It's my training, sir, courtesy of Her Majesty." The soldier asked, rocking on his heels, a sweet smile on his face. He was looking at Sherlock as if he wanted to say something, but he just smiled again instead.

_Where the hell is Woodley? And why is that kid smiling at me like that?_

"I'm certain. He is the police," Sherlock tilted his head at Mycroft, ignoring his brother's glare. "We need to get back to the train, brother dear. He's gone."

"Well, alright, have a good day." The young soldier gave him a sideways look, and Sherlock watched as his rescuer walked past them, into the station. He melted into the crowd, and Sherlock felt a niggling sense of something. As if the soldier knew him, but didn't say a word. It would explain that smile, and the look. At least he thought it did. Or that young man was giving him a very special smile for another reason, and Sherlock had noticed that 'special smile'.

_Damn newspapers, everyone knows my face now. Hoping I hit my head, hoping I hit my head, I must have. I don't notice smiles from handsome young men…..SHUT UP!_

He put his hand to the back of his head, looking for a bump, but he was fine, curls wet from the snow. Sherlock frowned, and shook his head. Mycroft was staring at him in a most peculiar manner. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and walked back into the station, his brother at his side. He forgot the young soldier, thinking he would have a very angry doctor to soothe once he was back. And he didn't relish explaining himself to his brother's boyfriend either.

"Save the glares for later, Mycroft. We can't miss our own train."

* * *

><p>Clay walked away from the detective and his brother, merging with the crowd, pulling out his mobile as he neatly stepped around travelers on the platform. He hit the speed dial, and waited as the call rang through.<p>

"Clay, report." Jaime asked him, her voice even and cold. He heard the sound of traffic over the line, and figured she was still in London.

"Sherlock caught onto Woodley as quickly as you thought he would, my lady. Woodley tried to kill him, too. I stopped him."

"Did Sherlock connect you to Blackwood?"

"No, my lady. Dr Watson didn't see me either, so he can't identify me to the spymaster or the detective. Sherlock never saw me before today. I'm clean."

"Good. Keep watching Woodley and the Vicar's men. Call me if you need back up."

Clay heard Jaime sigh quietly, nearly too soft to hear over the wind and the roar of traffic.

"My lady?" He was afraid to ask, but she sounded off. She never sounded off kilter, not like this. Violently wrathful, and deviously vengeful, yes. But never fretful. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Clay. I'm not accustomed to keeping a Holmes alive, is all. My brother is spinning in his grave right now. Though I'm assuming Mycroft Holmes had him buried. I never found his body…"

"I can try and track his body down for you after this mission, if you want."

"I searched for him for two years, Clay. His body is burned to ash and thrown in the trash somewhere, I'm certain. Keep an eye on them. Call me of you need me, I have a friend or two to see for the holiday."

"Yes, my lady." Clay bit his lip, and took the chance. "Merry Christmas, Jaime Moriarty."

A pause, a quiet moment even he could tell was shock. He feared he overstepped, when he heard the faintest whisper before the line went dead.

"Merry Christmas, Clay."

He dropped the mobile away, and smiled to himself as he got back onto the train, hiding in the farthest economy car from the Holmes party as he could get. He'd been watching over them for the last few days, per Jaime's orders. He'd spent worse Christmases in years past, and this was the nicest one yet.

He had a feeling this Christmas was going to be interesting.

* * *

><p>"So, this Woodley is a drug dealer."<p>

"Drug lord, close enough. Runs a ring, odds are the remnants of the one Lestrade dismantled nearly a decade ago, while I was high as a kite." Sherlock leaned back in the soft leather seat of the limo, eating a peanut from the can in John's hand. His doctor was grumpy with him, but let him steal his snacks anyway. "He sent that madman after you, and I'm guessing he was high on Winter's Night that night, probably why he tried to kill you. He was likely sent there to kidnap you, or kill me and didn't wait for me to get home due to the drugs."

Violet was quizzing him, and she had a look on her face that said she was trying to decide whether or not to be mad that her uncles ran off after the man who harassed her and left her behind.

They were all piled into the long car, even the dog. He was up front with the driver, who stoically bore up well under the kisses Bear showered on him before he settled down, nose snuffling at the cracked window. Sherlock, John, and Lestrade were in the rear seat, the doctor wedged between the two bigger men. Mycroft was on one of the side seats, up front, Anthea at his side as they both talked on their mobiles, and to each other at the same time. Violet was alone on the other side seat, avoiding looking out the windows as they drew closer to Sherlock's childhood home.

"And he hit on me why?"

Violet asked, her lovely face crinkled up, and she looked so much like him that Sherlock smiled.

"Did you really just ask why a man would hit on you?" Lestrade asked, flummoxed that the pretty young woman had no idea why a man would hit on her.

"Oh, stop it. I know I'm okay looking, but he really should have gotten a clue."

"Okay looking?" Lestrade muttered to the doctor next to him, and John shrugged. "She serious?"

"Dunno, she's a Holmes after all. Wonder what the rest are like?" John whispered back, and he and Lestrade ignored the glares from the three Holmes in the limo.

"You'll know soon enough, gentlemen. Our family home is just ahead," said Mycroft, calling from the front of the limo, Anthea looking past him out the front window.

Sherlock sighed loudly as his lover and the DI sat up, peering out the windows to the red house high up on the hill. The drive was long, and the view spectacular. The Holmes family home was a three story house, old as the hills it crowned, but maintained to perfection and lovingly cared for. The hill was covered in a thick sheet of white, the snow here pristine and unmarred by thousands of feet. The house was a deep red, the masonry painted every year to maintain the fresh color. Well groomed trees kept the house company, the pines still wreathed in deep evergreen boughs, taller than the house they sheltered from the bitter winter winds.

Violet twisted in her seat, peeking through the windows too. Sherlock watched his niece as everyone else got their curiosity out of the way. She sat back from the window, having taken a quick look, and she was staring at her shiny black boots as if she had forgotten how they got on her feet.

Sunset had happened minutes before, the red manor house bathed in a dimming twilight, the lights within shining out through the windows. There was just enough light left to see the two figures waiting in the front garden.

His parents. Sir William and Marion Holmes were expecting them.

* * *

><p><em>Oh my God, it's too late to get out of this. What if they don't like me? Fuck, what if they do like me? I have grandparents! I just saw them. Oh my God oh my God…<em>

_Snap out of it!_

Violet sucked in a deep breath, and grabbed her computer bag from the seat next to her, slinging the strap over her chest sideways, gripping it tightly. She stared down at her high heeled boots, wondering if they were too much to wear when meeting grandparents for the first time. Her mother's parents had died well before she was born, and she had no other family in the world except for the people in this limo. So this was so very new.

Violet looked up from her boots, and bit her lip again, not noticing the sting from her cut lip. She was wearing a thigh-length black dress, no hose, and a black leather jacket that did nothing to protect her from the cold and did everything to make her feel silly. She had loved the outfit right up until this moment, wondering if she would be found adequate.

The limo stopped, and Violet stayed in her seat, letting everyone pile out around her. Sherlock gave her a chiding look, but she ignored him, waiting until he got out before following suit. She hid in his shadow, glad it was getting dark fast. Hopefully no one would be able to see how nervous she was. She steeled her face as best she could, and yet found herself hiding behind her uncle. Sherlock knew she was there, and his hand found hers in the shadows, holding tight.

Violet could hear an older man's voice, greeting Mycroft and Anthea first. Her uncle started introductions, pointing out his assistant and his boyfriend (though he didn't say boyfriend, Mycroft was ballsy and said 'lover' to his parents). She heard Greg cough at that introduction, but the DI pulled himself together well enough to say hello in return. John introduced himself, as Sherlock was still letting Violet hide behind him next to the limo. Violet heard a woman's voice, welcoming them to their home, inviting them in from the cold.

"Please, all of you inside. It's cold out here. Tea and snacks in the front room, just head for the fire." That must be her grandmother. _I don't even know my grandmother's name! Oh I can't do this, I can't do this….. _

Footsteps walked up the stone path, her friends presumably entering the house. Violet realized she was hiding her face in her uncle's shoulder, her grip on his hand so tight she was surprised he wasn't complaining.

"Hello Father," Sherlock rumbled, his voice sounding extra deep under her head. Violet peeked the tiniest bit from behind his shoulder, and saw a stately old man with thick white hair and Sherlock's face smiling at them both. He shook Sherlock's free hand, clasping his son's hand in both of his.

Violet gave a tiny start when she saw Mycroft's eyes in his father's face. Sherlock looked like his father, but Mycroft got his eyes. It was those eyes that made her freeze up, staring. He saw her looking, her face hidden, and gave her a smile. The twilight was still bright enough for her to see his face clearly, and she saw nothing but kindness there.

"Oh, child. Come out from behind my son. I'm no dragon," Mr. Holmes bid her, and Sherlock squeezed her hand in encouragement. She dragged in a deep breath, and let it out. Hacking the CIA was easier than this.

Violet held Sherlock's hand still, but moved out just the littlest bit from behind him. She knew when her grandfather saw her clearly when his face went blank from surprise. She gulped, wondering if she wanted to know what he was thinking. She stared at him, as he stared at her, from her hair, to her eyes, to the face that resembled his so much. She saw herself in him, and blinked quickly, to rid herself of the tears threatening to ruin her calm.

"Father, this is your granddaughter, Violet Anne Hunter. Violet, this is my father, your grandfather, Sir William Holmes."

Violet barely heard her uncle, so absorbed was she in the older man. She let her lips quirk up the smallest bit, and shuffled out a bit further from behind Sherlock.

"Hi." It was her best effort, and she cringed, dipping her head. She wasn't used to being so self-conscious, so afraid of what someone else might think.

Violet didn't notice she was shaking, and if anyone was looking they might think it was the cold. She noticed the long fingered hand that touched her jaw, strong fingers lifting her chin. She met her grandfather's eyes, and blinked hard, refusing to cry. He had a pensive look on his face, his eyes searching hers, the slim fingers on her chin trembling slightly.

"Forgive me, my dear. I wasn't expecting you to be so lovely. It is an old man's wish to have grandchildren. I am glad to have this wish granted, and so beautifully."

Violet knew he meant something else, but was too kind to say it. He hadn't expected her to look so much like her father. Like Sherrinford.

Violet tried to say something, but she got really embarrassed when she blushed. She just smiled as best she could, aware of her uncle smiling indulgently.

Her grandfather neatly took her other hand, and tugged her away from the shelter of Sherlock. Her uncle let her go, and with a wink, walked up the path, leaving her alone with his father. Violet had no idea what to say or do, but she found herself following, her arm roped through her grandfather's, his hand over hers where it rested on his arm. Her grandfather walked her up to the house, and he had trouble looking away from her face. There was no one else outside, everyone inside, presumably waiting on the two of them to get in there so the holiday could start.

"My son tells me you're an American?"

"Oh…. Um, yeah. Technically…..sorta," Violet stammered out, and she was mentally cursing herself for sounding like an idiot. "I was born here, but Mom took us to the States when I was two."

"Your mother? Hunter, I am assuming?"

She nodded, and she caught the vaguest hint of something in his eyes.

"There was a young woman my eldest knew from school, named Evangeline Hunter. She left the area suddenly, nearly twenty-five years ago. Could she be your mother?"

"I…. wow. Yes! My mom's name was Evie."

"You have her smile," Sir William said, and Violet felt the nerves begin to fall away. "Sherlock also said that she passed?"

"Yes…. When I was thirteen. Cancer."

"My condolences, my dear. She was a sweet girl, brave and smart."

"She was the best mom I could have asked for."

They were at the door, and Sir William opened it with a gentlemanly flourish, making her smile. He paused her briefly before she stepped in, and he gave her a look that was all Sherlock.

"Welcome home, Violet."

* * *

><p>Sherlock took the final step over the front threshold of his parent's home with a spring in his step, satisfied that his father had sufficiently charmed his American grandchild. Violet's atypical shyness had been very obvious, and Sherlock had caught his father's eye when his niece hid behind him. His mother was busy inviting everyone in the house, and busy pretending she wasn't horribly nervous at greeting her only grandchild, so his father was left to work his charm.<p>

"How did it go?" Mycroft nearly pounced on him as he took off his coat and scarf, hanging them on the coat tree beside the doorway. Sherlock could hear everyone speaking in the front room, his mother's voice forcibly cheerful.

"Father charmed her, as expected. It helped that she is equally charming in her own way. I think our father loves her already."

"Good. Mum shall be the hard one. She's doing her best not to act like anything is wrong."

Mycroft and Sherlock both moved from the front door, heading through the sitting room door, where they saw their mother holding court over her guests. Long white hair swept up regally on her head, black and white blouse topping black slacks gave their mother a queenly air, and she moved about her guests with energy. John was thoroughly engaged in talking to her, his doctor red in the face when she patted him lovingly on the cheek.

Mycroft went to kiss their mother hello, before joining Lestrade beside the fireplace. Sherlock saw his father and Violet walking up the front path through the windows, and knew his mother would have to stop pretending she wasn't about the meet her dead son's daughter for the first time. Sherlock didn't blame his mother for pretending Violet wasn't here, or that this was emotionally difficult for her. Sherlock truly was like his mother in many ways; emotions left them off-balance, and withdrawn. It was hard for his mother to open up to anyone other than her husband and sons. Yet she was doing a marvelous job with Greg and John; she must have decided to give it a try with the men her sons loved.

Sherrinford had nearly destroyed his mother, and his death had been as much of a relief as it was heartbreaking for her. Sherlock was afraid, for both Violet and his mother. Violet's resemblance to Sherrin was strong, very strong…she had his eyes. Sherlock just hoped his mother would be able to see past them, past the ghost, to the brilliant girl beneath.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder, just as his father and niece entered the sitting room. Time to get it over with.

* * *

><p>Jaime zipped her jacket up tight, glad it was insulated for artic temperatures, as the air unit she was hiding on top of was ice cold. She was laying on the ventilation ducts that ran just below the ceiling of John Woodley's warehouse, and from her top-lofty position, she could clearly see what he was up to in the large building with its mazelike floor plan.<p>

There were dozens of lab technicians in specials suits hovering over tables and machinery, mixing chemicals and ingredients. The warehouse had an open air plan, meaning there were walls, but none of the rooms had ceilings, so she was able to see clearly into each room. The labs where the temperatures needed to stay cold were covered in thick plastic sheeting, but she could still see through them just fine.

Years and years ago, James had helped (for a very stiff fee) a minor lieutenant in a drug cartel take over his organization and resources from his ailing crime boss. The plan had almost fallen into ruin, as even then, Sherlock Holmes had interfered. If the detective hadn't become addicted to the drug cartel's product, the final meeting between Holmes and Moriarty may have happened years earlier.

James had salvaged enough of the situation to arrange it so Woodley was never charged, and released, and he slowly and carefully took over what was left, building it into a syndicate that had stranglehold on the London crime scene. Woodley, while a sick, perverted, nasty and rude man, was a decent chemist; it had taken him this long to finally resurrect the formula for the drug known as Winter's Night.

It was Jaime who Woodley truly owed thanks to; for it was she who had slain the old crime boss, allowing Woodley to take up the reins. Jaime had single-handedly beguiled and killed the old pervert to make way for the new one and his pet junkies. The old crime boss had ended up in the river, looking like a victim of a bad hookup in an alley. In a way it had been, as she killed him swiftly and without mercy.

Jaime watched as two guards dragged out a hostage from one of the labs, taking him down a long hall to the room where they were keeping him. She figured this was the kidnapping victim that had lived at the crime scene where the Vicar had tried to kill Sherlock and the doctor. She had been watching on and off for two days now, and she was currently figuring out the connection between the Vicar and John Woodley. She knew they knew each other; she caught snippets of conversation the night before, something about three million pounds.

It was here that Williamson had run to for protection after Mycroft Holmes successfully revoked his diplomatic immunity. MI6 was still hunting for the now rogue CIA officer and his people. It hadn't taken long for Jaime to figure out that Williamson was here to kill Mary not because she was an active threat to any government, but because she was an active threat to Williamson. Mary knew too much for the Vicar to let her live.

The hostage was safely locked up in his room for the night, and Jaime went back to watching. The Vicar was around here somewhere, as it had been Woodley who was sent to retrieve Violet and kill Sherlock Holmes. Once again, the attempted hit was a failure, and Jaime giggled silently to herself as she contemplated how many men Williamson had left to spare.

Sending Clay to cover for Woodley and the Vicar's men had been a smart move. Now all she had to do was get a glimpse of the Vicar, and the threat to Mary would be over. She wasn't alone on this ventilation shaft; her rifle was waiting patiently beside her in the cold evening air.

She heard the voices, the shouting, coming from her left. She slowly turned, keeping her profile low. She recognized that voice as the Vicar. He was most displeased by something. She couldn't see him yet, but his voice was strident enough to be clear.

"What do you mean, he almost got caught? What an idiot! I told him exactly what to do if he wanted that girl, but does he listen? He let his crouch think for him, and nearly got caught!" that was indeed Williamson, yelling so loudly that his shouts echoed around her head in the rafters.

"Any sign of our target?" He was calmer now after that outburst, and Jaime eagerly listened for a reply. He was talking about Mary now, not the niece.

"No sir. We can't tell if she is with the party or not. Most of them stayed out of sight on the train."

"There has been no sighting here in London at all. Mycroft Holmes' house is dark, minimal staffing in and out. If she's in there, I can't tell. I'm starting to think she might be on that train after all. There's no way they would leave her behind, all of them. There's no reason to do that if they went through this much trouble to hide her from me and two governments."

"I would agree sir."

"Alright, we'll stay here, keep surveillance on the townhouse, and the detective's flat as well. Search it if you can, see what you find out. If Woodley can't get his target, and distract Mycroft Holmes enough once his niece goes missing, then I'll have to leave early to get Morstan myself. Planned action is still on for the 25th, correct?"

"Yes, sir. Woodley confirms he'll acquire Hunter on Christmas morning, as planned. That will give us the time we need to remove our target while they are all distracted."

"Good. And if all goes to plan, Mycroft Holmes will have a bullet in his head for Christmas."

Jaime sucked in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. She was at a crossroads; the Vicar was here, but she had no shot; the Holmes' family was being targeted in an attempt to flush out Mary. If Mycroft Holmes died, Mary was in danger. No matter she wasn't in the country; Jaime knew Mary hadn't gotten in the car when everyone left for the train station. She knew that Mary was still in the townhouse.

And Jaime Moriarty knew exactly how to get in there now, thanks to a certain detective not making sure they weren't being followed in the catacombs….

_Looks like I need to go shopping. I have a date with a very lonely blonde. Let me see what Mary wants me to do. It's her future. I'll kill whoever she wants._

* * *

><p>Marion Holmes had heard of John Watson for years, so when she finally had the chance to meet him properly, she found him a kind and loving man, full of patience, with a steel core that would keep Sherlock from ruling the roost. He was exactly what her son needed in a partner. Her son's refusal over the years to countenance a romantic relationship had been at first a worry to her, as he was a sweet, wonderful boy who tried too hard to freeze out the world, protect himself. He needed love more than any of them, of her three children. So for Sherlock to have finally fallen in love, it was for Marion a gift, a reassurance that her child would be happy and content in his life at last. Love would tame his demons.<p>

Sherlock was not one to love more than once in his lifetime; John Watson was in her son's heart for all eternity. And the way John acted when Sherlock's name was mentioned, the way he looked at her youngest, she was certain, convinced, that John loved her baby boy the same way.

Mycroft, her precious middle child, had always been so adamant that he needed nothing from the world, especially love. His elder brother's madness had broken his heart, and driven Mycroft to hide behind his frozen armor, allowing little sentiment to be exposed or developed. At odds with this was his belated and steadfast dedication to care for and protect his little brother; Mycroft was attempting to make up for the years he felt wasted on adoring Sherrin. Sherlock had been spared most of the atrocities Sherrin committed due to his age; she had done her best to shield her youngest. She had not been so lucky with Mycroft. He had loved and adored Sherrin, his older brother his hero.

So to meet Gregory Lestrade was a miracle. Mycroft had found love, in the most unlikely of places. He found it with a detective inspector from Scotland Yard, who was a sweet, almost shy man who was doing his best not to appear as rough around the edges as he really was. He had the face of someone who was just learning again how to be happy, as if happiness were a dream, an illusion. He had obviously been very alone, for a very long time.

She saw the way he looked at her son; he loved him totally, completely, with everything he had in him. And so she loved him a little in that moment too. If young Gregory Lestrade made her son happy, then she would gladly do anything to keep him happy as well. They were two men who had been so alone, for so long, that she knew that they would treasure each other as they should.

Marion smiled gently at the young doctor, handing him a teacup. She saw Sherlock look to the entrance of the sitting room, and she knew she could not pretend any more that her husband hadn't been sent to greet Violet. Marion had seen right through her men, both her remaining sons and her husband. Trying to pretend that she wasn't terrified had made it all the more obvious that she was, and her men folk had kindly worked around her panic.

When she heard Sherlock speak at the doorway, she took a deep breath, and looked for the first time at the child her eldest son had fathered in secret. A granddaughter. Curious despite her trepidation, Marion did her best not to be too hopeful, and what she saw was not what she was expecting.

Marion lost her grip on the cup she was handing to the lovely young woman who traveled often with her son, not comprehending when Anthea had to take the teacup quickly before it fell to the floor.

Marion felt like the last eighteen years were gone. Wiped clean from the earth, and her lost son was standing before her again. She gasped, and put a trembling hand to her mouth, tears welling up quickly.

The child in front of her was not a child at all; she was a young woman, fit and strong and more beautiful than any grandmother could hope for a granddaughter. Tall as her youngest, hair as black as William's had once been, wavy like her father's. Skin losing its tan in the winter light, and her eyes; her eyes were Sherrinford's. Those brilliant amethyst eyes locked on to hers, and Marion struggled to breathe. Her son was a ghost in the woman before her, and with that thought, Marion's heart broke.

The threatening tears spilled free, and she wasn't aware she was crying until Mycroft was at her side, hand on her shoulder. Marion couldn't look away from the girl standing so nervously between her youngest and her husband. The room fell quiet, and Marion hardly noticed when her guests quietly got up and discreetly left the room. Mycroft's hand was a firm reassurance on her shoulder, and it took him rubbing lightly for her to snap out of her shock.

She dropped her hand, and wiped at her wet cheeks. She blinked away the tears, and really looked at the young woman. She was Sherrinford's daughter. Marion would have known that, no matter Sherlock's silly tests. It was in the way she stood, the way her hair fell at the part, the obvious intelligence in those gorgeous eyes. Her heart was screaming at her that she had a granddaughter, screaming it so loudly that Marion was moving at her heart's behest and not her brain's.

She was no longer a young woman, and moving fast wasn't as easy as it used to be, but this one moment in time her body didn't complain. Her feet were pulling her across the room, her hands out, wanting to reach out to touch this marvelous creature. Marion stopped a short arm's length away, and simply stared.

"Hello dear." It was all she could manage, and Marion tried her best not to start crying again.

"Umm…. Hi."

It was the American accent that did it, that banished the ghost of her long dead son. Marion saw before her a nervous young woman, one dreading being judged for the sins of her father. Marion was ashamed; her grief at learning that Sherrinford had a child hadn't been meant to drive Violet away. No matter her son's crimes, Marion had loved him deeply, her firstborn child. So when she learned a piece of him still lived, that he'd a daughter, all these long years, to Marion it had been a fresh wound over the scarred part of her heart dedicated to Sherrinford. She hadn't meant for this girl to think she was being measured by her father's actions.

"You look..." Marion stopped, drew in a breath.

"I know, I look like my father."

"Oh, darling. You do indeed, but I was going to say you look exactly like William's mother, your great-grandmother. William, Sherrinford, and Sherlock look just like her. And the lovely thing? Her name was Violet, too."

"I do? She was? Really?" Violet perked up at that, as if the thought that she might look like someone other than her deceased father a cheering thought. Marion saw it, and lamented silently her foolish fears. This girl was not her father, and deserved none of the burden that came with his mention.

Marion reached out, for the first time in her adult life feeling something close to shyness. She wanted so badly to touch this young woman, hug her close, feel how real she was. Marion caught the smooth, slim, youthful hands in her aging ones, and pulled just the littlest amount. Violet blinked at her, but moved, just as hesitant.

Marion took it as all the invitation she needed; she had her grandchild in her arms faster than thought, pressing a kiss to her perfect cheek before clutching her tight. She laughed, crying too, as Violet hugged her back, hiding her face in her grandmother's snow white hair.

They stood there for a long time, as her men folk gradually drifted away, leaving the two women to get to know it each other. Some wounds took a lifetime to heal, and others never did. This wound here would had been waiting a long time to heal, and it had a good start, requiring only a few brave smiles and a long awaited hug.


	48. It's Bloody Christmas!

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**A/N: Hope you all enjoy this chapter. It's the longest one so far that I've written for Sherlock that I haven't chopped in two due to size. No skipping parts, there's tons of clues hidden away in here for what's coming in Part III.**

**WARNING: SEX. OMG level SEX. So hot it's melting the snow in this chapter. No blushing!**

**Oh, and VIOLENCE too.**

**Read, enjoy, and review!**

**Next chapter drops 6/1/2014!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Forty Eight<strong>

"_**It's Bloody Christmas!"**_

**December 24****th****, Christmas Eve, 12:01 AM…London**

"John, I'm fine. You don't have to call every few hours," she said to the worried man on the other end of the line, leaning against the window frame. The night was not yet too late, and Mary could hear people talking, laughing in the background.

"Are you sure you don't want us to send a car for you?"

She could hear him walking around, fussing with something. They were all at the Holmes' residence, and she could tell everyone was having fun.

Mary smiled ruefully, and rested her head on the ice cold glass, her breath frosting as she breathed on it. John was trying his best not to worry. He worried about everyone. Even though there was so much hurt, so much anger and things left unsaid between them, Mary knew that she need never fear he'd ever take how he felt about her out on their child. He was going to be a wonderful father.

"John."

"Yeah?"

"I'll be fine. Help Mycroft kill Silas, and have a wonderful Christmas. I promise I'll call you if I need you."

Mary heard him sigh softly in frustration. _Poor John._ He hated not taking care of people. And she counted very much in the 'take care of' column. Mary placed a hand lightly over the slight swell of their growing child, and sighed herself. He heard her, and grumbled something she couldn't make out.

"Alright, alright. Just be careful, please. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, John."

She hung up before he could think of something else to be worried about. Mary tossed the mobile on to the bed, and went back to staring out the windows. The moon was high overhead, nearly full. It would be on Christmas night. One of the brightest of the year, too. Snow was falling slowly, lazily collecting on the dormant plants in Mycroft's garden.

The spymaster had a lovely home, for all that it resembled a museum more than a house that was supposed to be lived in. Mary mused that having Greg move in with him was probably the smartest move she'd seen the eldest Holmes make. Mary had only spoken to him handful of times, and each time she did, the elder Holmes seemed more human. Gregory Lestrade was thawing the Iceman.

Mary hoped the plan to trap and kill Silas Williamson would work. While it wouldn't stop the hounds from coming for her, it would give her the breathing room she needed to bear her child and make a run for it. The farther away she was from her baby and John, the safer they would be. She refused to die in a cage, or to live forever trapped in comfortable solitude under house arrest. Mary knew the longer she stayed in Mycroft's custody, the likelier it would be that he wouldn't be able to hide her away, keep her from prying eyes. His peers across the world would eventually want to know who the blonde was that he hid away, and who her child was, and those questions would be never ending until she was a pawn in countless power plays.

Mycroft had seen that eventuality; Mary had made it clear to Sherlock as well. She doubted faking her death a second time would stick, and it wouldn't solve anything. Governments around the world knew to some degree whom she was due to the bombings, the events with Jaime Moriarty. There was no way to erase her existence from the world unless she was dead for real. And even then, her history and her face were in too many files, on too many hard drives.

Mary watched the snow fall, and thought she saw movement in the garden below. She stood back a step from the window, and was about to alert the security teams that there was a perimeter breach when she saw the silhouette below. Mycroft had cleaned out the watchers around the house, and the teams left behind to guard the house did a regular sweep. So whoever was down there, standing on the edge of a bright swath of moonlight, knew how to avoid the guards, the cameras.

There was only one person in the world with the skill and knowledge to avoid Mycroft Holmes and his security. Mary stepped back to the window, hand to the glass. The figure below turned its covered head in her direction, and slim hand rose slightly in acknowledgement. The pale white hand moved in a sweeping motion, down to the ground, and mimed walking with two fingers.

Mary tapped the glass twice, and the figure stepped back from the moonlit spot in the garden, disappearing instantly into the black shadows. Mary grabbed her wrap, tossing it over her nightgown, and tugged on silk slippers she'd borrowed from Anthea. She ran for the door, and checked the hall before stepping out, gently closing the door behind her. Mycroft had a skeleton crew in the house, but they all left around midnight, leaving just the security teams. They stayed away from the residence level, and she knew there was a small security room they used near the front of the house.

As long as no one saw her head past the bunker, she should be okay. The cameras were recording, but Mycroft assured her that she wouldn't be spied on while she was under his roof, especially while he was away. The security teams would only access the feeds if an alarm was triggered during a breach, much as they would when Mycroft was home, and there was no current threat against him. When he made that assertion before he left Mary saw nothing but an honest effort on his part to make her feel like she wasn't a prisoner, but a guest. She knew he wouldn't approve of her letting this new guest in, though.

Mary ran soundlessly down the hall, pausing at the top of the stairs before running down them just as quietly. Thankful that her stomach had settled down a few hours earlier, Mary ran through Mycroft's house, down the long hall past Greg's room, and down the stairs, past the bunker. The basement access to the coal cellar was well hidden at the end of the long hall, and Mary grinned as she saw it was unguarded.

She snuck through the door, checking to make sure no one saw her. She knew that there were no cameras in this old, dark room, and the ancient lamp in the corner cast a fretful glow across the stone walls. Mary waited next to the door, hand on the knob, and thought she heard a sound at the coal tunnel grate. She closed the door, and grimaced at the rusty lock. She turned it carefully, and it made a minimum of fuss as she turned it.

There was the barest whisper of sound from the black void, and Mary slowly walked over to it, the grate locked, utter darkness an abyss through the bars. She couldn't see anything, and a part of her was hoping it really was who she thought, and not someone trying to trick her.

"Mary?"

She jumped at the sweet voice, light and airy, with a hint of Ireland. She felt a sharp sting of yearning impatience in her chest, and ran the rest of the way to the grate, unsnapping the lock and swinging it wide on its ancient hinges. A tall slim figure dressed in black escaped from the darkness, and she found herself wrapped up in a snug embrace.

Mary buried her face in Jaime's shoulder, smelling snow and icy city air on her clothing, feeling the sting of the bitter cold emanating from the younger woman's garments. Jaime's arms held her tightly, and her hood feel back, long braid falling free over her shoulder. Mary pressed her face to the other woman's, and found herself laughing. Jaime hugged her hard, and she picked her up, swinging her gently before setting her back down.

Mary clasped her perfect face between her hands, those dark wild eyes bright and clear. Jaime gazed at her, the madness usually so prevalent nothing now but a memory, hidden away. Mary was caught up in those eyes, and wondered at what she was feeling. Her chest hurt, but it felt so good. A sweet ache was crushing her heart, and her whole body felt like she was on the edge of a storm, lightning striking the ground at her feet.

Jaime gave her the tiniest smile, and sighed, her strong arms roping around her waist, the taller woman pulling her body close to hers, chest to thigh. Jaime slowly dipped her head down, and gave Mary the shyest of kisses, sweet and gentle. She pulled back a hairsbreadth, and whispered to her, eyes locked.

"I love you, Mary."

Those words had been spoken before, in the rush of disbelief and reunion, and Mary had feared she dreamt them. To hear them now, so clear and unmistakable was marvelous. There was a pain deep in her center, one that bore John's name and would never really heal. Yet those words from this mad girl set a fire burning in her darkest of hearts, the place where the real woman who had no name lived. The dream of a perfect life was a lie that she finally cast aside, and the woman deep inside answered with everything she had in her.

"I love you too, Jaime Moriarty."

Mary kissed Jaime, holding her head firmly in her hands, unrestrained, pouring every shred of feeling she could into it that she staggered them on their feet. Jaime gasped, and Mary took the kiss deeper. She tried to show this mad girl how much she missed her, how vital she had become in those few short days they'd had together before madness and grief tore apart the world. Jaime Moriarty was capable of doing the impossible, and she had performed her last great act on Mary's broken heart.

Jaime kissed her back, and Mary suddenly found herself sitting on a dusty crate with no idea how she got there. The young assassin put her hands on Mary's knees, gently nudging them apart, stepping between as they opened for her. Mary couldn't stop kissing her, her own hands tugging at Jaime's long braid, the wavy lengths tumbling free. The scent of sugar and peppermint, top shelf whiskey and clean water flowed out from her hair, soft tresses cloaking the lovely woman.

Jaime pulled back, briefly breaking their kiss, and lifted one of Mary's knees, wrapping her trim leg around her waist. Mary eagerly lifted the other, both legs tightly holding Jaime to her. Mary's silk nightgown rode up her thighs, and Jaime's callused and slim hands pushed it up higher, fingers dusting over the top of her thighs before landing lightly on her waist.

Mary pressed tiny kisses to Jaime's neck, her jaw, and sucked once on her earlobe. Jaime gasped, and tried to kiss her again. Mary ducked her lips away, and darted under Jaime's chin, licking and nibbling the fine creamy skin of her neck. Jaime gasped, and shivered, her head falling back, long red brown hair a waterfall of incredible softness cascading down her back.

Mary held Jaime tightly with her legs, and very carefully let her hands run from Jaime's shoulders, down her chest. She picked at the lapel of Jaime's heavy long coat, tugging it back, over her shoulders and away. The younger woman had on skin tight black under armor shirt and a leather vest covered in pockets. Mary grinned at the familiar sight, such gear a normal part of her old life. She tugged at the zipper of the leather vest, lowering it a slow inch at a time, the tight fitting gear revealing a lush and supple form beneath.

Jaime shivered again, and not from the cold. Her hands on Mary hips were clenching and rubbing, her head still back, eyes closed. Mary did a double take as she saw a red sweep of color run across the young woman's face. She paused, and put a finger on the fine jaw of her girl, tipping her head back down. Jaime blinked at her, her dark eyes shadowed, something secret moving in their depths.

Mary found herself catching on a moment late. This mad child in a grown woman's body had been savagely abused when she was small, and Mary had a sinking feeling that sex had never been a part of her life since those early nightmarish days.

"Jaime, have you….? I mean, I don't want to do anything that you're uncomfortable with."

Jaime ducked her head, and snuggled her face to Mary's, her warm sweet breath tickling her ear. Her response was so quiet, so lost in the shadows around them that Mary had to fight to hear her.

"I've never been with anyone. Not since…..no one."

"Oh, sweetheart," Mary whispered, kissing the graceful arch of Jaime's neck. This mad child was broken, shattered into a thousand pieces, but there was glimmer of light shining through the cracks. Mary pondered her choices, and let the right option win over her own desires. She wanted to touch, to be touched in return, but she knew well the scars this young woman carried. So really, whatever she wanted was secondary. It was only about this girl now, in this moment.

"Go as far as you want, sweetheart. I'll take as much as you want to give me, and happily go no further," Mary said to the girl she held, dropping kisses everywhere she could reach. Jaime sighed happily, and arched her neck into the touches.

"I want to, but… I think I forgot why I came here." The younger woman gasped out, as Mary licked a tender spot behind her ear. "Oh, do that again…."

Mary sucked on her soft, pristine skin, tasting peppermint and the light flavor that was all Jaime. She was powerful, wild, unpredictable, and strangely enough, one of the most steadfastly loyal people Mary had ever met. This young woman was insane, truly lost to sanity, but she loved deeply and fully, and gave her faith along with it. Her devotion to a brother long dead had left the world burnt and broken, shaken to its foundations. Jaime Moriarty loved to the exclusion of all else, and never gave up. Her devotion could shape the world.

So for her to say to Mary that she loved her, there was no doubt in her heart that Jaime meant those words. Mary felt no fear that one day someone else would come along, and tear away the love this girl gave her so completely. Mary had found her safe harbor, the place she was meant to rest her weary soul and revel in the love returned.

What did it matter this woman was by all accounts evil? Mary was no saint. She had more blood on her hands than most, all lives taken willfully and with full knowledge of her deeds. Mary was not a hypocrite either; she was dark and covered in blood. She had one foot in the madness that Jaime dwelt in, and one planted firmly in the graying wasteland of her remaining morality. She would be an anchor in turn for her lovely mad girl, keeping her grounded as best she could. For Jaime's sake, and the world's.

_What is evil anyway? Could a person truly be wholly evil if they could love, and love completely?_

Jaime leaned into her more, a sound reminiscent of a purr and making Mary smile. She hugged the girl to her tighter, Jaime hugging her back. Jaime settled against her, much as a cat would when it needed a bit of loving, shy but insistent.

Mary clutched her tight, let her sweet mad girl cuddle. She ran her fingers through her red brown hair, the waves left behind by the braid glinting with fire in the low lamp light. It hadn't been long since Mary let her in, but it felt like hours, days, months. Mary sighed, and realized for the first time since John destroyed her heart that she was happy. Mary felt a few tears threaten but she blinked them away. No sadness tonight.

"Why did you come, sweetheart? Not that I'm complaining, really. But this is so dangerous, for us both."

She posed her question softly to the woman she held, and Jaime laughed quietly, her shoulders shaking a few times before she pulled back. The young woman smiled at her, and gave her another tiny kiss.

"I'm here to figure out what you want me to do about the Vicar and Woodley."

"Who's Woodley?"

"Oh! That's right, you've been hidden away under Mycroft's umbrella. Woodley is a drug lord my brother put in power several years back, and he's after Violet Hunter. Woodley paid the Vicar three million pounds to kidnap Violet, but she escaped her to England and her uncle's protection before she was caught."

Mary sucked in a breath, and did her best to organize her thoughts.

"So Violet is in danger from Woodley, while everyone else is in danger from the Vicar?"

"Yes dear, that's about it. I had one of my men stop Woodley from killing Sherlock earlier today. Woodley is planning on kidnapping Violet on Christmas, and using that distraction so that the Vicar can kill the Holmes family and presumably take you. They think you're there, by the way, and not here."

"Oh God, Violet. That poor girl."

"I suppose. If I had my way, I'd kill everyone and let the bodies sort themselves out. But I figured you were trying this good girl thing, so here I am. I've never kept someone alive before, other than James. I failed at that. So I need you to tell me what to do."

"Let me think." Mary rested her chin on Jaime's shoulder, idly playing with her soft hair. Jaime was content to be held, and waited patiently.

"Do you know why Woodley wants Violet?" Mary asked her girl.

"I didn't hear for certain, but he's a deviant. Charged with sexual assault and rape several times, always skated on the charges." Mary could hear the deep seated anger in Jaime's voice, and she marveled that Woodley wasn't dead yet. Jaime hated rapists, so much that she would kill her own people if they strayed towards sexual assault. "He wants her for something she can do for him. And if he gets her, he will rape her."

"I give you permission to kill him, no hesitation there," she said to the deadly assassin in her arms. "If you don't, I will."

"I'll flip you for it."

Mary settled back down, and let her hands rub down Jaime's back, sweeping up under the vest, along the slick under armor shirt that hugged every curve and muscle of her body. Jaime purred again, and leaned into Mary's hands as they came to rest just below her breasts, before sweeping down her firm abdomen to her hips. Mary smiled mischievously, and nibbled on Jaime's neck before resting her chin on a lean, sleek shoulder.

"If I warn Sherlock, he can prevent Woodley from getting Violet, and they can still trap the Vicar. Let them kill everyone. Keep you out of this, away from trigger happy spymasters and sociopathic detectives who will want you dead."

"You could keep me out of this, but what then? Mycroft kills the Vicar, Sherlock stops Woodley, Violet is safe, and you're a commodity for the life you carry." Jaime pulled back from her, pinning her with her sharp gaze. "If you think Mycroft will let you go, that John or Sherlock will let you go, it won't happen."

"I made them promise to let me go once the baby is born. I give Mycroft every mission I went on, every detail I can recall, and he lets me go. My baby will never be safe with me, and I'll never be able to give her the life she deserves. John and Sherlock can."

"What? Mary, no." Jaime was shocked, her perfect face a mask of shock and dismay. "You want the baby!"

"I do, more than anything. But the assassin cannot be her mother. I can't raise her, be there for her. I'll destroy her if I try."

"Mary, don't throw away your life. Leave with me now. I can hide you, I can hide your baby, and we will never be found or caught. Sherlock didn't destroy the syndicate!" Jaime burst out, gasping as she did, her face showing the rising madness attempting to return.

"Jaime?" Mary stressed her name, disbelief warring with incredulity. Surely she didn't hear that correctly.

"Oops." Jaime blinked at her, face getting red. "If James was still alive, he'd kill me right now."

"What do mean, Sherlock didn't destroy Moriarty's syndicate?"

* * *

><p><strong>English countryside, Holmes' Family Residence, 12:15 AM<strong>

Greg threw himself back on the soft bed, holding up his whiskey so he didn't spill it on the covers. Mrs. Holmes had shown him upstairs to Mycroft's old room, and he looked around it from his spot on the bed.

Everywhere he looked was a room belonging to a kid he probably would have beat up in school. It was neat, extremely organized, and without a trace of sentimental knickknacks anywhere. Zero toys, no football hero's posters on the walls, no family photos. Nothing to show the personality of the boy who once lived here. And he could swear in court that there were more books in this room than all the libraries in London. Bookshelves everywhere and full of books on every subject he could think of… some books even covered topics he hadn't known existed!

Greg toed off his boots, and his socks, tossing back the last of his whiskey as he did. Mrs. Holmes had asked what he wanted to drink for a nightcap, and he managed to sneak his first real drink since the day he got shot. He was aware that alcohol and his meds weren't a good mix, but dammit all, he just wanted one. Being here in the domicile of the Holmes family had been a very serious wakeup call- he was in love with a man, and one who wasn't an average bloke either.

Greg didn't care if men fell in love with men, he just absolutely never figured he would. Ever. So here, in this house, where the elder Holmes' made it blatantly clear that they didn't care about their son's sexual orientation, and that to them it was normal, all that just drove it home to Greg that his own family wouldn't react this way. His family would be shocked, in disbelief, and his father would be angry, to say the least. His mother would wonder what was wrong, if he wasn't still trying to get over his ex-wife, and God forbid she brought up wanting grandchildren. Greg could practically hear the sniveling concern and recriminations echoing in this bedroom tucked away under the rafters.

Greg rolled over, the liquor having helped numb the constant ache in his side. He dropped the glass on the night stand just as the door opened, and Mycroft came in the room. Greg sat back on the pillows, and eyed the tall spymaster. Mycroft was uncommonly evasive, not looking at him as he emptied his pockets into a small tray on the bookshelf next to the door.

"What's wrong with you, then?" Greg winced, not having meant the words to come out as bitter as they had. His fears and worries about his own family weren't Mycroft's problem.

Mycroft didn't answer, just threw him a sideways glance as if he were trying to avoid him. Greg scowled, and wished he didn't have that drink after all.

"Nothing's the matter, I'm fine." He could barely hear Mycroft, he was speaking to the wall and his voice was low.

"Oh."

Greg sighed, and leaned back, unbuckling his belt and pants, kicking off his jeans. It was warm in here, and he always got hot when he drank. Mycroft stayed by the door, and Greg kept throwing him curious glances as he fiddled with his mobile. He wasn't texting, just flipping the phone through his fingers, idly running a thumb over the dark screen.

He shrugged, and stood, his feet not as sure under him as he was thinking. He really shouldn't have had that drink, his meds were messing with him for sure. Greg stripped off his jumper, leaving just his white tee and underwear on. He looked at Mycroft again, and the spymaster was still standing there. It clicked, suddenly. Mycroft thought Greg was mad at him. He was such an idiot sometimes.

"Mycroft." The spymaster looked up him, hesitant, eyes guarded. Greg let him look, head to chest, his bared thighs down to his toes. He saw a flash of heat in those intelligent eyes, and grinned. "I'm not upset at you, please don't think I am. Just grumpy cuz my own family isn't as awesome as yours."

"Oh…. It's just you seemed off after Mum and Father cornered you after dinner."

"Nah, not upset at them, or you. They just made it obvious that my own parents, wonderful as they are, would disown me the second they knew I was sleeping with a man."

"What? Why?" Greg was touched as Mycroft blurted that out, his phone now long forgotten in his hands. Greg grinned at the spymaster's incredulity. He found himself falling just the tiniest bit deeper in love at the lack of comprehension on Mycroft's face.

"Well, to my Dad, two men need have no more contact than a handshake. What we're doing is bit past that." Greg sighed, and tried to cheer up his spymaster. "There's a reason you haven't met them."

Mycroft just stood straighter, and tossed his mobile down. His jacket was off, vest with it, snowy white shirt bright in the low lamp light. Greg smiled as Mycroft came to him, arms under his, pulling him flush to his front. Greg laughed softly, and put his arms around Mycroft's neck, holding tight.

"So this isn't okay? They wouldn't approve?" Mycroft leaned down, and kissed Greg slowly on the neck, his breath hot on his skin.

"Ahh…no."

"Then this isn't either?" Mycroft asked as his hand slid down Greg's side, to cup a firm buttock, pressing Greg's groin tight to his. Mycroft was aroused, and Greg was getting there fast too.

"Oh….. What the hell, none of it is okay, and I want it all." Greg groaned, and captured Mycroft's head in his hands, holding his lover still as he took his mouth. "You're mine, no one will ever take you away."

Greg kissed Mycroft without restraint, hard and deep. He staggered the spymaster back a step, but his mouth opened, letting him in, and his tongue roughly seeking out the other's, touching and caressing. Mycroft groaned, and his other hand fell to his ass, massaging and gripping hard.

"Mycroft, I want my turn," he panted into his lover's mouth, and he saw Mycroft's eyes go to pure liquid fire as heat swept up between them. "I want you."

"Are you sure? Your side…"

"I'm very sure. Nice and easy, I promise. Please, I want you."

Greg tugged Mycroft back, to the bed, his hands busy on the man's clothing. Mycroft helped, and together they had him stripped down to his underwear in seconds.

Greg turned, and pushed Mycroft back on the bed, coming over him carefully. His side was sore, but the pain manageable for sure. His erection was burning hot, and Greg used one hand to strip his underwear off, exposing his hard cock to the now cool air. He pulled off his shirt, and tossed it away. Mycroft looked up at him, and a long fingered hand was suddenly wrapped snugly around his hard length. His whole body jumped in response, and he fell to the bed beside Mycroft, the spymaster caressing him, thump rubbing the tip, stroking him.

Greg moaned, and grabbed Mycroft, pulling him to him, catching his mouth in a kiss. Their tongues were rough on each other, kissing deep, urgently. Mycroft's hand on him was incessantly devious, making him groan with every sure stroke. Greg broke off the kiss, and thrust his hips at Mycroft's hand. His nice and easy promise was thrown out the window, both men aggressive, hands tugging and gripping at each other.

Mycroft got a small smile on his face, and Greg felt every brain cell in his head cheerfully die in anticipation as Mycroft moved down to lay beside his hips. He did his best not to shout when Mycroft's wet mouth slipped over the head of his cock, and his lover deepthroated him totally, without hesitation. Mycroft had no gag reflex, and in a small part of Greg's nervous system that wasn't overwhelmed was thoroughly impressed. Mycroft took him all, his tongue dancing merrily over his erection as Mycroft swallowed around him.

"Oh, fuck," he gasped, and Greg bit his hand to keep from yelling. Mycroft's mouth was destroying him, reducing him to nothing but quivering muscles and a raging inferno that pooled in his groin. He bit down hard on his hand, crying out around it, as Mycroft's suction, and strokes, moved the foundations under him.

"Mycroft!" He shouted softly as he could, and he did his best not to come in his lover's mouth. He wanted Mycroft in a different way, beneath him and moaning his name.

Mycroft pulled back, a devilish grin on his face, and he let Greg tug him back up on the bed next to him. Greg leaned up, breathing heavily, and removed Mycroft's underwear, exposing the hard, heavy length of his lover. Greg stared, and before he had finished the thought, wrapped his own mouth around the hardness. Mycroft tasted as good as he remembered, salty and musky and so damn good he wanted to keep going until Mycroft came in his mouth.

Greg pushed Mycroft's legs apart, and set about obliterating Mycroft's control. He rested on the bed, mouth on Mycroft, hands wrapped under his hips, holding him tight to his mouth. He swallowed as he sucked, and he did his best not to choke when he took Mycroft too deep. His lover's long fingers were buried in his hair, and Mycroft was watching him, head propped up on his pillows. Greg met and held his eyes as he licked and sucked, and he found himself having so much fun he decided to make Mycroft come.

Mycroft thrashed on the pillow, hands tugging at his hair, Greg's name whispered in entreaty, begging him to stop, begging him to keep going. Greg pulled away, only to return, the whole of Mycroft in deep, until he got used to the depth, the way his cock nudged at the back of his throat. He swallowed as Mycroft had, and was rewarded by Mycroft's eyes rolling into the back of his head, and the keening shout of pure lust he dragged from the spymaster.

Mycroft was whispering something, over and over, and Greg paused to listen. It was Mycroft saying his name, interspersed with 'love'. Greg groaned, and rewarded Mycroft by taking him deeply again, sucking hard. His lover cried out, the soft sound bouncing off the walls. A part of him was worried that the others might hear, but the biggest part of him didn't give a damn. Mycroft was his, let the world hear it all.

Greg felt Mycroft swell up, his mouth stretched to hold him all, and suddenly his lover shuddered beneath him. Mycroft came, thick spurts that Greg struggled to swallow. The taste was intense, and so purely Mycroft that Greg was close to coming himself. He rubbed himself over the covers, enjoying the friction, as Mycroft came. Greg swallowed every drop, sucking hard so he missed nothing.

He stopped once Mycroft began to jump at every tiny move, pulling away as his lover came down from his climax. Mycroft was panting, hands still buried in his hair, eyes shut, with tear tracks wet on his cheeks. Greg grinned, absurdly happy to have reduced the Iceman to this state.

He crawled up Mycroft's side, and pulled the lanky form to his chest. Mycroft collapsed on him, arms holding him as tightly as he could manage, without hurting his side. Greg pressed kisses over his face, his lips, blushing once he remembered where his mouth had been. Mycroft stopped him before he could pull away, kissing him deeply, surely tasting himself in Greg's mouth.

Greg's cock twitched, still heavily aroused and wanting its turn. Greg was content to wait, round two whenever Mycroft was ready. He smiled, and wiped a hand across the damp brow of his spymaster. Mycroft smiled back at him, eyes heavy and looking like he was ready to pass out. Greg kissed him, not wanting him to fall asleep just yet.

"Greg?"

"Hhhhhmmm?"

"Thought you were going to take your turn?"

"Oi, listen to you. You ready then?" Greg dipped his head, kissing Mycroft passionately, clutching his love to him. Mycroft responded as eagerly as he could have wished, and Greg moaned in pleasant surprise as Mycroft wrapped his legs around his hips, rolling the DI on top of him.

Greg laughed, feeling Mycroft harden under him, thoroughly impressed yet again. They were nearly the same age, and he doubted he could recover as fast as this man did, no matter the stimulus. Greg rubbed himself over his lover, groin to groin, Mycroft's hands everywhere on him. Greg couldn't stop kissing him, and let his hands wander too.

His hand went to Mycroft's ass, and Greg found himself again impressed. Mycroft may not be in the best shape stamina wise, compared to his brother or John for instance, but he had the loveliest ass a man could ever hope to touch. Totally fantastic. Greg showed his appreciation, whispering words in Mycroft's ear that he had never said to anyone, ever. Dirty, loving words all in one, and Mycroft went crazy beneath him. Legs tight around his waist, arms around his neck, Mycroft lifted himself to Greg, begging him to take him, fill him up.

Greg pulled back, and keeping Mycroft under him, he leaned over to the night stand, glad he'd unpacked when they first arrived. He grabbed the lubricant, returning to cover Mycroft again, holding his lover under him. Mycroft wouldn't stop kissing him, lips tasting every inch of skin he could reach, whispering in his ear how much he wanted him, loved him. Greg shook, and took a moment to whisper back how much he wanted him too, how perfect the spymaster was, how unbelievably wonderful he was.

Greg blessed the brave minute he had taken to talk to John earlier about the best way to go about this, as he had no idea how to make love to Mycroft. He hadn't exaggerated when he told Mycroft that his sexual repertoire was limited. He had been married to the same woman for a long time, who had seen sex as an inconvenient means to an end, mainly keeping him content enough not to complain when she left him alone on so many cold nights.

Greg banished the thoughts of his ex-wife, and focused on the man under him. He kneeled, and applied the lubricant liberally, to himself and Mycroft. Mycroft grinned at him, seeing what he planned, and angled his hips for him. Greg did his best to restrain himself, so eager he fought back the urge to just plunge away.

Mycroft helped him, a hand guiding him to his entrance, and Greg buried his face in Mycroft's neck as he pushed. The pressure was insanely tight, and so hot he felt like he was burning. Mycroft's legs were tight around his hips, his angled to give Greg the best access. Greg was sweating, shaking, and when he finally pushed in, he bit Mycroft's neck, sinking his hard length entirely in the man under him.

Mycroft moaned, arms tight on his shoulders, and he was kissing Greg everywhere he could reach. Greg shuddered, and held still, afraid he would hurt his lover, thinking he was too big, considering how tight the fit was.

"Go ahead. I'm alright. Take me."

It was that whispered order in his ear that made Greg snap, and he pulled back, nearly all the way, before plunging back in, deeply. Mycroft gasped, and kissed him, tongue dancing with his as Greg found a perfect rhythm. He thrust slowly, but deeply, each thrust pushing Mycroft deeper into the soft covers. Mycroft lifted his hips to meet him, and they moved perfectly in sync.

He was lost, lost totally in the arms of the man holding him, in the tight warm body beneath his, so lost he never wanted to find his way back. Greg nibbled and licked and gently bit at the strong jaw of his lover, sucked on the smooth skin of his neck, all the while moving in him, changing the angle, the depth, to pull soft sounds from Mycroft each time. Soft, light cries, moans feathering out from his chest as Greg gently rode him, moving on him, Mycroft's hard cock nudging against Greg's firm abdomen.

Greg felt a tightening deep inside his groin, and knew he was getting close, so close to coming. He wanted to wait, to prolong this perfection, but Mycroft knew somehow how close he was, and he whispered the naughtiest, dirtiest encouragement he had ever heard, directly in his ear. Greg swelled up in response, pulling a deep moan from Mycroft, and he damned his injury, his need for this slow pace, and took Mycroft hard.

He drove as fast as he could, as deep as he could, the wet tight grip of Mycroft's ass pulling him in deeper each time, his long legs holding them together. Greg couldn't stop, and Mycroft wouldn't let him, fingers flying down his sweaty back to his ass, playing with him in return, long fingers dipping knuckle deep as Greg plunged wildly on top of his spymaster.

"That's it Gregory, come in me, now." Mycroft's order came out of nowhere, accompanying the stretching of his fingers in Greg, and the DI lost it totally. He plunged ruthlessly, making Mycroft scream under him, and the spymaster came himself, the wet heat splashing up between their bodies. The sensation of Mycroft clenching tightly on him made Greg's orgasm trigger, and he thrust as deeply as he could.

He seated himself fully, and crushed Mycroft to him, his hips jerking as he came. Thick jets pumped into Mycroft, and the spymaster cried out softly in his ear with each white hot burst. Greg gritted his teeth and stopped breathing, moving, everything, letting Mycroft anchor him.

Greg sobbed, his orgasm ripping everything out of him. There was nothing left inside of him, no strength in his body, no desire to move in his muscles, no willpower to leave the hot wet heat he was so happily secured inside. Mycroft was trembling under him, and his legs shook, falling from his waist to hit the bed. Greg rested, breathing hard, and he figured if he didn't die happy in this moment, he would do his best to try it again, and soon.

Mycroft kissed his face, and Greg pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. Eyes dark with spent energies and satisfaction, Mycroft let Greg see him, no walls and armor free. He tumbled deeper in love with the man he held, just from the emotions swirling in his intelligent green eyes.

"I love you." Greg wasn't planning on saying those words, right after sex, so cliché and all. They came out anyway, and Greg couldn't hold them back. "I love you so much."

"I love you," the spymaster whispered to him. A thumb smoothed across his hot cheek, and those long fingers pushed his hair out of his eyes. He was thinking he probably should get it cut, but Mycroft loved to run his fingers through it, every chance he could.

There was an ache in his side, front and back, the gunshot wound protesting vociferously to get his attention. Greg ignored it as best he could, and gingerly pulled out of the man under him. He was watching Mycroft's face as he did, and he grinned at the light blush that dusted over Mycroft's cheeks as he did it, making the spymaster jump.

Greg rolled on his side, Mycroft rolling with him, the spymaster snuggling to his chest. Greg held him lightly, both men breathing hard, hearts racing, and neither of them wanting to stop touching the other.

"For someone who's never done that before, you certainly have an aptitude," the spymaster said to him, nuzzling closer, breathing in the heady scent of their lovemaking.

"Had a good tutor."

"Oh, John gave you some good pointers did he?"

"Oh my God, did he tell you?"

"No, I saw. Both of you blushing something fierce first chance you got alone to ask him. Seriously Greg, of course I saw."

"I meant you, not John, you sneaky git. Can't stop spying, even on holiday."

Mycroft laughed softly in his ear, and those hands of his were wandering again. Greg moaned as Mycroft's fingers teased and toyed with his ass, and he didn't protest when Mycroft tugged him to lie on his stomach.

Greg stopped talking, stopped caring about the rest of world, and focused on the man rubbing his back and buttocks, firm hands soothing sore muscles. Mycroft was careful, avoiding direct contact with the larger exit wound, still a brilliant red and tender to the touch, even weeks later. He eased the aches around the large scar, and Greg did his best not to fall asleep under the tender care of his lover.

"Go to sleep, Gregory. I'll be here when you wake up, I promise."

Greg passed out, and he had a fleeting thought as he did. He thought he once loved his ex-wife, he had married her after all. Put up with her for over a decade, longer really. And yet the emotions Mycroft stirred in him were so vastly different, so totally pure and powerful and eclipsing in their scope that Greg knew that he hadn't loved her one bit.

Gregory Lestrade was in love with Mycroft Holmes, so permanently that he was renewed, and all his lonely years now worth it if he could love his spymaster for the rest of their lives.

* * *

><p><strong>Holmes' Residence, 1:00 AM<strong>

Sherlock led the way up the stars, John holding his hand in the dark, his detective nervous he might fall on the narrow stairs. He had fallen plenty of times as a kid, mostly because either Sherrin pushed him, or he was too busy thinking to pay attention to his feet.

Lestrade and Mycroft were already asleep, or he figured they were since they had been up there long enough to do their business and pass out. Sherlock grinned, and gripped John's hand tighter.

Sherlock's room was also on the third floor, thankfully under the rafters at the opposite side of the house from Mycroft's room. He didn't fancy hearing his brother and his boyfriend having sex the entire time they were here. Especially as John wouldn't be in any shape for sex for at least another week. He reached the top, and led John down the dark hallway, to the far end of the hall.

The house was centuries old, and back in the days when it was first built, people were shorter. The halls up here were narrow, the ceiling low in the hall, exposed rafters at the apex of the ceiling, white plastered walls the only brightness against wood floors so ancient they were nearly black.

Sherlock stopped at the black iron wood door to his room, and let John go first. His doctor was insanely curious, and didn't bother hiding his eagerness in seeing the room Sherlock grew up in. Sherlock stayed at the doorway, turning on the light for his doctor as he stepped in, looking around him.

Sherlock's room to him was entirely normal, and he saw nothing out of place about it, nothing unusual. Yet it was the delightfully stunned look on John's face that made him look again, as if it wasn't his room, but a stranger's.

He was lucky enough to have a several large windows, providing him with a strong cross breeze in summer, and plenty of light year round. The walls were white, untouched, and pristine after centuries of copious care taken by his ancestors. He had left the walls alone, no posters marring their perfect finish.

What he had done instead to make this space his was to hang charts and diagrams, tables and pictures, countless maps and portraits from the exposed rafters of his room. If he were to lay flat on his back on the floor, he would have an unimpeded view of every piece of information he had thought vital to know as a child growing up in a house full of geniuses.

Everything from the periodic table, to PI written out to the 1,000th decimal, to the chemical equations for every man-made and natural occurring poison in the world (at least the ones known when he was nine), to maps of the United Kingdom and London, and on and on it went. All of it secured above his head, and all he would have to do would be to change position on the floor to see a new set of information.

He had multiple desks in his room, his childhood chemistry sets and equipment neatly laid out and waiting for him, and there were enough bookshelves filled with everything under the sun to once make his father remark that he was glad the foundation was so strong, else the weight might break the house.

Skeletons, bugs, chemical formulas, some of his mother's equations on whiteboard, literary works by late 19th century authors, poetry, tomes in Latin and Greek, a random stuffed animal here and there, everything imaginable littered the shelves. There was a kite leaning against the wall beside the door, a large metal key tied to the string, and in the umbrella stand was a collection of child sized weapons, and sticks fashioned to look like pirate swords.

Dozens of his father's books covered every spare spot, many stacked on top of each other. His father was a retired university professor, and his love of books had been a gift to all of his children.

Sherlock had cannibalized the old suits of armor that were hidden in the cellars, fashioning for himself a small suit, which rested under another window. It worked too, as he had neatly avoided being skewered by his older brother when he was caught spying on him out in the woods. Sherlock had stopped following Sherrin after that.

Sherlock hoped John wouldn't notice the small black pirate hat with its long blue feather resting atop the calf skull in the corner. A globe as large as he when he was a small boy stood beside a window, black X's marking places he had wanted to go when he grew up. Sherlock smiled at it, and wondered where he put his marker. He had plenty of new places to tick off the list.

Sherlock spied the old dog bed that still rested in its place of honor next to his, and felt a tremor run through his heart at seeing where Redbeard used to sleep. There was an old photo framed on his nightstand, and from the doorway, Sherlock could see a thin, pale boy with wild hair holding a tiny Irish Setter pup in his lap.

"Sherlock, the ceiling… should I ask?" John turned to him, and Sherlock smiled at the wonderfully impressed and dumbfounded expression on the older man's face.

"This is how I trained myself to make my mind palace."

"What?"

"This room, everything in it, is the core of my mind palace. The first room I made. I still have it too, in here," he tapped a finger to his temple, then waved a hand at the room. "This is the room from which everything spirals out. Well, it used to. I changed the center of my mind palace a while back, gave it a new starting point."

"You did? To what?"

"Our bedroom at 221B Baker Street. Our bed and you in it. My palace is centered on you, John."

John had no reply to that, his face so shocked and overwhelmed by emotion Sherlock thought he said the wrong thing, and that he revealed too much. He straightened from the doorway, and John must have seen his worry, as his doctor was in his arms faster than it took for Sherlock to open them.

"That is the most amazing thing you have ever said to me." His doctor mumbled against his throat, pressing a small kiss to his jaw before hugging him tighter.

Sherlock sighed in relief, and pondered his lover's words. The most amazing thing he'd ever said? Surely he'd said more amazing things than that. John knew he was the center of his reality, didn't he?

"John, I….. Do I make you happy?" He had to know. John was his, forever, but Sherlock would forget sometimes that John wasn't just his lover, but his partner, flat mate, and best friend. Sherlock was afraid sometimes that he wasn't enough to satisfy all the facets of the man he needed, the man he loved, so much.

"Yes, you do," came his doctor's reply, with a firm hug and a swift kiss to his favorite place under Sherlock's chin.

"Can I ask…? Why, how?" Sherlock bit his lip, and waited for John to pull back, his deep blue eyes searching his, looking for the root of this sudden vulnerability.

Sherlock never doubted himself, nor his worth to others. The only thing he felt stir doubt in his heart was John. The fear that John would leave him, either by death or exasperation. Sherlock feared John's loss so greatly, he strove to keep it from crippling him.

"That's easy, love. An easy question, easy answer. You make me happy because every part of you, from the insane intelligence, to the cold hard exterior, the manic spiels and wild deductions, to the sweet and shy cuddler, to the fierce warrior and devoted lover, every single part of you resonates with me, perfectly. There is no other match for me in the world, Sherlock, no one but you."

"Oh…"

"Yes, 'oh'. I seem to be making you say that a lot lately. Come to bed with me, Sherlock, and tell me stories to match the room. I want to hear about Little Sherlock."

"What's to tell? I was born, I grew up, and then I moved out, and met you."

John laughed at him, tugging him to the bed, and Sherlock shrugged out of his jacket, his clothing, as John did the same. They both dived under the covers, and Sherlock wrapped his body around John, both of them naked and enjoying the contact. Sherlock stretched out, and turned out the lights, snuggling with his doctor.

John tucked himself under Sherlock's strong arm, and curled tightly to his detective. Sherlock smiled, letting John get comfortable, well used to his doctor fussing until he was settled. Every night, John would fuss, unless Sherlock exhausted him thoroughly before hand. But seeing as how John was in no shape for exhausting activities, he would endure the fuss.

"You tired?" John asked him after several minutes, and Sherlock pried an eye open to peer at John.

The moon was bright, and the flooded the room with white light. Sherlock found himself feeling oddly, having John in this place. Two different points of his life colliding, much as it had when John and Violet first met. Every piece of his pre-John years was coming into contact with his doctor, John leaving himself indelibly imprinted on his life.

"No, not really. Not used to sleeping with you and not having sex."

"Yeah, kinda weird. And laying down is making my head hurt."

Sherlock sighed, and got up out of bed. He went to the closet, and pulled out some more pillows. He went back to bed, and made John sit up, piling the pillows high behind his doctor. Sherlock got back in bed, and leaned back on the mounds of pillows, pulling John to rest back on his shoulder.

"Go to sleep, John. I'm here."

The smaller man sighed happily, and let Sherlock hold him. John stared up at the ceiling, and Sherlock was able to see where John's eyes would rest in the moonlight. He watched the emotions and thoughts race across John's handsome face, and Sherlock relaxed. John was examining every tiny piece of his childhood, and he seemed to like what he saw. John didn't flinch away from the animal skeletons that graced one shelf, fully assembled and standing up in anatomically correct poses. John saw the autopsy diagrams from Grey's Anatomy, the original volume, the great book beside them on a shelf.

Sherlock watched as John sent his eyes upwards to the rafters, and Sherlock wondered if John could see the patterns, the way Sherlock had prioritized and arranged the information flowing across the ceiling. Not many could, not even Mycroft. The one time Sherrinford had been up here, he had seen a glimmer of understanding in his eldest brother's eyes. He couldn't be certain, though, as his father had shown up, and ordered Sherrin out of his room.

Sherlock pondered his memories of Sherrin, and realized as he did that there weren't many good ones. Sherrin never talked to him unless he had to, never looked at him, or acknowledged his existence unless they were in public, and he must. Sherrin only ever talked to Mycroft, or rather, let Mycroft talk to him, and follow him like a puppy.

It hadn't been until Mycroft was away at university, and Sherlock older, that Sherrin began to pay real notice to the boy who looked just like him. Sherrin was tall, slim, leanly muscled, and so closely identical to how their father looked as a young man that in pictures they were indistinguishable.

Sherlock had avoided Sherrin as best he could, even when his brother appeared to be in control. His brother was a monster, not a man, madness personified; regardless of how polished or charming he may have seemed. Sherrin hadn't provoked him much, a part of him perhaps seeing that he couldn't push Sherlock like he could Mycroft. Sherlock was capable of violence of the same variety as his, and Sherrin was loathe to instigate a confrontation, even with a boy sixteen years younger than him.

Instead of curly, wild hair, Sherrin's had been wavy, and dark as a raven's wing, same as Violet's. Face along the same lines as Sherlock's, hard cut planes and sharp angles, and pale too. Where Sherlock had the faintest idea of freckles, Sherrin was blemish free, fine porcelain skin unmarred by marks or scars.

His eyes were as his daughter's too, vivid, deep and crystal clear purple. His eyes had earned him a few cutting remarks and jabs from the other boys at school when he was little, right up until Sherrin hurt his abusers, and hurt them badly. Always in full view of adult supervision, Sherrin would provoke his bullies until they came for him, and Sherrin would decimate them with a brutal efficiency that was beyond what a small, normal child should have been capable of doing.

Sherlock learned all of this from his father, after Sherlock had come home from school one day, with a bloody lip and black eye, and absurdly happy that he wasn't as bad off as the other boy. Sir William had given Sherlock a stern lecture, one of the first, and it stuck with him to this day. Sir William didn't make the mistake of assuming that Sherlock was Sherrin; but he had warned his youngest that the potential for bloodlust and violence was in him, as it was in all of them, and that he must control it, harness his rage.

Their genius came at a price. They were given the gifts of intelligence, and as a price, they were burdened with violent tempers and the propensity for madness. Sherrin hadn't resisted the madness, he had willfully and eagerly given in to it, reveling in the blood and misery. And so Sir William warned Sherlock to learn control, and wisdom to temper his actions. Logic gave him the edge he needed, and obsession with solving crimes and puzzles challenges to focus his mind. Wherein Sherrin succumbed, Sherlock thrived. He would fail on occasion, his habitual drug habit proof enough of that. At least he tried.

Sherrinford hadn't tried, he had given in to the darkness, the evil within. And over the course of his brutally short life, Sherrin had killed nearly two dozen people, mostly women. Sherlock figured there was more, but he had never been able to discern how many more victims there might have been. Sherrin had gone on a terror spree across the countryside, taking life after life, sowing fear and suffering throughout England. Right up until Mycroft stabbed him through the heart, the only one able to get close enough to their brother to stop him.

Mycroft stabbed Sherrin through the heart, and watched as his brother's lifeless body fell from the high cliff upon which they stood. Sherrin's body disappeared into the frothing waves of the North Sea, never to be found. Mycroft had returned home, confessing to his masters and his parents his crime, and locked himself away for weeks in his room, never showing his face. It had taken a missive on thick vellum paper, written in an elegant female hand, to shake Mycroft from his misery, and pull him from his room. He had told no one who sent the missive, or what it said, burning it before he left for London.

He had emerged the Iceman, the boy dead and gone. And his career was his focus from then on out, while occasionally harassing his younger brother.

Not long after, Mycroft was ascending the rungs of the government, securing position after position in rapid fashion. He had been the spymaster of MI6 now for over a decade.

Sherlock sighed, pulling his mind away from his brothers, and realized that John was sleeping on his shoulder, snoring softly. His doctor had fallen asleep while Sherlock was musing about his less than pleasant childhood.

Sherlock gently brushed a thumb over John's cheek, smoothing the lines near his eye. John didn't wake, but the corner of his mouth lifted in the tiniest of smiles. Sherlock grabbed the blankets, and tugged them higher, as the cold moon chased shadows across the floor, illuminating pieces of his childhood.

* * *

><p><strong>Christmas Eve, 12:25 AM London<strong>

"I hold the inner web, it's intact. Always has been. Sherlock just got the outer web, the external networks and contractors. The core is perfectly intact, and fully functional." Jaime told her, her face at once lovely and perfect, and yet equally disturbing in the casual acceptance of holding all that power.

"Moriarty's syndicate, the web, his criminal empire, is intact?" Mary was having trouble processing those words, still shocked. Jaime saw the disbelief on Mary's face, and sighed, wondering what she had said to make Mary so bothered. This relationship thing was not easy at all.

"Sherlock got most of it. The original web, the core James spun everything off of is still intact. I have all the money, the contacts, and the inner circle. Most believe me dead along with my brother, but if I was to come back to life, the world's criminals wouldn't hesitate to flock back to the Moriarty banner."

Jaime didn't hesitate to tell Mary any of it, her days of needing to keep parts of her life hidden no longer necessary. She was dead, after all. Only a handful of her people knew she lived. She wasn't exaggerating either. If the world's degenerates learned that a Moriarty yet lived, and the syndicate was revived, then there would be a revolution of crime, unstoppable and devastating.

Jaime watched as Mary fought to comprehend what she had just told her, and the consequences of what that meant.

"Are you going to come back to life, Jaime?" Mary asked her, a hollow sound in her voice. Jaime tilted her head, and wondered at it, what that meant.

"It was never my syndicate, Mary. It was always his. It was James' design. I was the blade, he was the general. He abandoned me, and left me nothing but grief and rage. I have what I need now, nothing more."

Mary stared at her, her lovely porcelain skin paler in the low lights, the gloom of the coal cellar giving her a vulnerable aspect, as if she would break if handled too roughly. Jaime felt a frisson through her heart, and thought she might be feeling worry. She had felt nothing but rage and grief for so long that she couldn't remember with any reliability what anything else might feel like. The only emotion she felt with any certainty was love. She knew how love felt, knew it so well that when she lost it, it left a howling abyss where it once burned brightly.

"Mary?" She couldn't take the staring, the expression on Mary's face anymore. There was only one person left in this world who could hurt her, and she was in this room, her arms.

Mary appeared to shake herself from a daydream, blinking at her, before her gaze narrowed. Jaime tilted her head, eyes wide, waiting. Mary sighed, and gave Jaime a tiny thrill when she wrapped her arms around her neck, and kissed her. This kiss was sweet, and left Jaime with a slow burning heat in her stomach, her fingers tingling.

Mary pulled back, and whispered in her ear. "Just tell me if you plan on taking over the world, that's not something I want to find out from the evening news."

Jaime smiled, thinking of when Mary blew up CAM Tower, Magnussen dead on the top levels. She knew that night that Mary was successful because she saw it on the news. She quickly wiped the grin away, and nodded solemnly at her love when Mary gave her a mock frown.

"Okay, enough with the depressing stuff. Call your man, we need to warn the others." Mary ordered her, and Jaime backed up to dig her mobile from her pocket, shrugging off her coat and vest, tossing them both to the crate next to Mary.

She dialed, and let it ring out on Speaker, and it got to the third one before Clay answered.

"My lady?" He had yet to break that bad habit. She was no longer that farce of a noblewoman.

"I'm with Mary, Clay. Speak freely, please."

"Oh! Wow. Hello, ma'am. Again. Guess you might not remember me from Blackwood."

Jaime sighed, and Mary laughed softly at the young man who sounded so flustered. Clay heard his mistress, and coughed discretely, waiting.

"Do you know where Woodley is?" Jaime asked Clay.

"No, my lady. I have eyes on the Holmes' residence. Perimeter is secure. I was going to do a closer sweep, but there's a very large dog, and he didn't take kindly to me getting too near. I backed off before he woke everyone up. I can't imagine the Vicar or Woodley getting any closer than I did."

"The Vicar?"

"He's got a small house about a mile away from the Holmes' place, looks like the owners left to go on a vacation. He just moved himself and his people in there about an hour ago. He must have used a helicopter to get here so fast."

"I would have. Looks like he took the bait, Clay. He just moved his timetable up too. Probably because Holmes is on to Woodley, a trap may not work for Violet anymore. This may not happen on Christmas, it might happen earlier. Keep an eye on him, he could go at any time."

Mary grimaced, and leaned on Jaime's shoulder, her hand rubbing absently at her abdomen. Jaime was curious, but figured if Mary wasn't well, she'd say something. "Hold on Clay, I'll be right back."

Jaime put her man on Hold, and cocked a brow at Mary in question.

"What do you want to do?" Jaime asked Mary, and she was hoping Mary gave her the go ahead to start shooting people's faces off. This waiting around bit was annoying. She was meant to kill, and she had patience issues. She liked trouble. Just thinking about using her blade on Woodley made her skin tingle deliciously.

"We have to warn them about Woodley making an attempt on Violet, so they don't fall for a trap and get killed."

"Okay, so how do you suggest we do that? Want me to call them, say 'Hey, I'm not dead, don't freak out its Jaime Moriarty and I've been saving your lives for the last week?'"

Mary laughed, and Jaime smiled, not used to making people laugh. She hadn't heard Mary laugh like that before, and liked the way it sounded. Mary leaned in, and gave her a kiss, making Jaime purr softly.

"You said Clay saved Sherlock? Would Clay be able to warn Sherlock, make it seem like he was part of that mystery group they think is protecting them all from the Vicar?"

"Well, it's not much of a stretch, as he is part of that mystery group. And yes, that should work," Jaime flipped the mobile back, and spoke to her man, who was whistling softly, patiently waiting for her to come back. "Clay."

"Yes?"

"Warn Sherlock that Woodley is after Violet, and that the Vicar is there, and where. Woodley was the one who paid Williamson three million pounds to abduct her. Tell them not to leave her alone for anything. They plan to move on her Christmas morning, or earlier, considering he left for the area tonight instead of tomorrow."

"Ummm…. Sure. What if he asks how I know, or who I am?"

"Well, obviously don't tell him who you are, or about me! They think there's a mysterious foreign agency assisting in this, play that angle. Don't die, please. I won't have anyone to order about until I train a new lieutenant."

"Yes, my lady." The line went dead, but not before Jaime heard the amusement in Clay's voice. She caught Mary smirking at her, and wondered why.

"I think he likes you, sweetheart."

"There's only one person I want to like me, dear. And I've got her right here."

* * *

><p><strong>Christmas Eve, 3:00 AM, Holmes' Residence<strong>

Sherlock heard a scratching at his door, and blinked away the cobwebs. He had been dozing on and off for the last couple of hours, John so deeply asleep on him that he hated to move, lest he wake him.

The scratching came again, and he feared for a second that ghosts were real, and Redbeard was back, begging to be let in his room. Sherlock woke fully, and realized that it was Bear, the big dog snuffling at the small void under the door.

Sherlock got up, careful not to wake John, grabbing a robe and pacing to the door. He opened it, and Bear gave him a giant puppy grin, white teeth flashing in the shadows. Sherlock went to wave him in, but the dog backed away instead, crouching down on his front legs, tail up and wagging, before running down the hall.

_Poor thing has to go out, I bet everyone forgot he was here. I wasn't sleeping anyway._

Sherlock got dressed quietly in the dark, the moon still bright. He pulled on the closest thing at hand, not bothering with his suit jacket, letting the shirt stay untucked, and stuffed his feet into John's boots. Thankfully they fit, his shoes weren't suited for the snow outside. He bundled up in his Belstaff, and closed the door behind him as he followed the dog down the hall, and down the stairs. Bear ran ahead of him, big tail thumping the walls in his eagerness to get outside.

Sherlock went to the kitchen door, and grabbed the lead from the old hook where Redbeard's leash used to be instead. He clipped it to Bear, and together they went outside. The snow was about six inches deep here at the top of the hill, and the wind was still. Total silence greeted them, the world lit up by the moon that was one night away from full. The sky was cloudless, stars winking brightly in the deep abyss of the sky above.

His feet crunched on the snow, each step sounding like a muffled gunshot in the empty, cold air. Sherlock looked around, and figured he might as well let the dog run. He wouldn't go far, here was food and company. Sherlock unclipped the Estrela, and the big dog took off across the hilltop, bounding like a puppy, biting at the snow and rolling round.

Sherlock watched, and smiled, huddling in his coat. It was well below freezing, but the dog hardly noticed, his coat well suited to the temperatures and the snow. Sherlock even bent over, picking up handfuls of snow and tossed some snowballs at the dog, who caught them each before smashing them in his huge jaws, tail wagging like mad. He would run to Sherlock, and dash away, begging the detective to chase after him.

Sherlock surrendered his dignity, and chased the big brute, snagging the tip of his bushy tail, and running as the dog in turn chased him. Sherlock was laughing so hard his lungs felt like they were a block of ice, and he played until he couldn't feel his toes or fingers.

He didn't mind, this was the most fun he'd had in ages. The big dog came over, and leaned on his hip, begging for head scratches. Sherlock obliged, and looked out over the hilltop, the place his home had stood for centuries. The great pines were taller, the small apple trees his mother planted when he was a baby not so little anymore. Sherlock was watching the bottom of the farthest pine when he saw something. He stood still, and watched, wishing he had thought to grab John's gun before coming outside.

There it was again, a small silver flash in the moonlight. Sherlock held still, and gripped tightly to Bear's collar, the big dog growling deep in his chest. Sherlock slipped on the leash, not wanting the dog to get shot if this turned out to be the Vicar making his move. Sherlock tensed, and watched as a lone figure stepped out from the tree's shadow.

Sherlock blinked in surprise. He wasn't expecting to see the young soldier from the train station. Yet there he was, hands tucked in his pockets, dark skin tinged pink from the cold, a nervous smile on his face. He met Sherlock's eyes, and even from this distance, Sherlock saw no threat there. The young soldier seemed to think about it, and made up his mind to approach. He was silent in the deep snow, feet making not a single sound in the still night air.

_Not just a soldier; Special Forces. Trained assassin. He is accustomed to killing silently. He can't be on active duty, unless this is a black-op mission. Recently discharged? Why is he here? Obviously he saving me earlier wasn't happenstance._

"Hi." Simple, direct, and there was that smile again. The young soldier was just a few feet away, hands empty at his sides. He had a weapon under his leather jacket, but he kept it zipped up, away from a fast draw if he meant to kill.

"Hello again. Strange place to go for a walk," Sherlock said to the younger man, and he got a big smile in response.

"Not so strange, sir. I've been covering you for days now. Not the easiest of assignments, either. You attract trouble like an American tourist in the Middle East."

"Ahhh, that makes sense. You've been part of the group watching over us. I take it I owe you thanks for the other day, the shooters, and the catacombs?"

"No thanks needed, just following orders. Though you're welcome, I don't like the Vicar much, gives the industry a bad name and all." The young soldier ducked his head lower in his collar, and Sherlock saw him shiver. "And I wasn't the one in the catacombs; that was my boss."

"Come inside, its cold out here." He turned to the house, catching a glimpse of the shocked expression on the young soldier's face, leaving it up to him if he followed or not. It was very cold out here, and he had yet to make a move. If he was part of the group covering them, then he had little to fear. These people, whoever they were, had plenty of chances to kill them all, and didn't have to help them. Sherlock smiled as he heard the tentative, deliberately noisy footsteps behind him. He wondered who the soldier's boss was, the one in the catacombs that night they ran from the CIA.

Bear seemed to understand that Sherlock didn't see the young man as a threat, and ignored him, keeping aloof. The big dog ran straight for the low burning fire in the kitchen, plopping down with a groan on the warm hearthstones.

Sherlock took off his coat, not bothering with tucking in his partially buttoned shirt. He did kick off John's boots, and put a kettle on to boil on the stove. He waved a hand at the table, and the bemused soldier shrugged once before sitting down.

"Can you tell me why you're here? I'm assuming it's not for tea."

"Nope, got orders again. You're all walking into a trap."

Sherlock was about to speak, when he heard a noise at the kitchen door. Mycroft stood there, Lestrade at his shoulder. His brother was dressed sloppily, much like he was, and he apparently got dressed in a hurry. Lestrade was dressed similar, and armed as well.

The young soldier tensed, but Sherlock moved to his side, a hand out, silently asking him to stay seated.

"Mycroft, Lestrade, do come in. I'd introduce you, but I haven't asked our guest's name, rather on purpose I might add."

"Sirs." He was very polite, this young killer. Mycroft stepped in all the way, and went to the other side of the table, Lestrade hovering behind the spymaster like a mother hen over her chick. Mycroft sat down, and Lestrade gripped the back of his chair, eyes intent on the potential threat in the room.

"Ignore them, I usually do. Tell me about this trap." Sherlock made their guest a cup of tea, the steaming mug at his hand where it rested nervously on the table.

"I was instructed to just tell you, sir."

"And I in turn will tell my brother, who will tell his lover. So you might as well tell us all now. Mycroft won't bite, you're not his type." Sherlock sat down at the head of the table, and stared intently. John would be down here already if he was awake, and he heard nothing on the stairs. He'd tell John afterwards; let the poor doctor rest.

"Okay….. Well, kinda simple, really. I was told to tell you that the drug lord John Woodley is going to grab your niece on Christmas morning, and the Vicar was going to use that distraction to kill you all, even your parents. My boss says he may move even earlier, as he wasn't supposed to get here until tonight, late. The Vicar knows you made Woodley on the train." The soldier played with the tea cup, but didn't take a drink, instead turning it on the table a few times before meeting Sherlock's gaze directly. "They think Mary is here, and have come for you. The Vicar got here a couple hours ago, he's holed up with about a dozen men in a small cottage less than a mile from here. Small blue house, about a hundred yards from where two streams meet in a small valley, tons of cherry trees."

"We know the house. And how do you know all this?" Mycroft leaned forward in his chair, hands crossed on the hard wood.

"My boss told me, and my own recon. Woodley and the Vicar know each other. The Vicar hid at Woodley's place after you made your move on him earlier this week. My boss also said to tell you that Woodley is the man who paid the Vicar three million pounds to kidnap Miss Hunter back in the States."

"Your boss knows a lot, for someone we don't know." Lestrade spoke, the DI sounding like his old self again, the cop instead of the polite houseguest or boyfriend.

"That she does. Look, I don't know where Woodley is. I lost him after the train station. I had orders to cover you, so I couldn't follow him. I'm sorry." The young soldier fiddled with his drink, and honestly appeared to be contrite that he hadn't done more.

_What a strange young man. Sweet and polite, and a trained killer. And he keeps smiling at me! Why does he do that?_

_Wait….. She? His boss is a SHE? Who…._

"Your information is appreciated, as is your assistance the last few days. Any chance we could thank your employer in person, or get a name?" Asked the spymaster, a small smile on his lips, eyes cold and focused. "It would be nice to thank our new friend is in this matter."

The young soldier actually laughed, his polite mask gone, a big smile on his face. He picked up his tea, downed the hot liquid in an impressive fashion, and stood. Lestrade didn't lift his weapon, but it was close. The young soldier shook his head ruefully, and slowly went for the door. Lestrade wouldn't stand a chance against this young man, none at all.

"Not going to happen. Don't think the world is ready for any of you to know that just yet," he put a hand on the door handle, and looked back at Sherlock. He smiled, and Sherlock shifted in his seat, wondering why he kept doing that. "I'm figuring its safe enough to go to sleep. Been up for the last three days. Do me a favor, don't get shot before I'm back on duty. She'll kill me herself if you die while I'm napping."

"I'll do my best," he murmured to the younger man, and as silently as he appeared, the young solider was gone, the door swinging closed behind him. Sherlock tilted his head; he heard someone moving around upstairs. Probably John, he'd been gone from bed long enough to wake his doctor. John didn't like it, not knowing where he was at night.

Sherlock sat in silence, pondering the news the soldier had carried, and the implications. Mycroft was equally silent, both men evaluating and changing plans in their minds.

Woodley's potential presence was a hiccup they hadn't planned for, but knowing exactly where the Vicar and his men where made things easy. Take out the Vicar, track down Woodley, have a quiet Christmas. Well, as quiet a Christmas as you could get in this house.

John stumbled into the kitchen, hair all messy and a sleepy look on his face. He stopped at the sight of his boyfriend, his boyfriend's brother, and another boyfriend all sitting around with very serious expressions on their faces, dressed crazily.

"What did I miss?" John asked, as he wandered over to Sherlock, so tired he was tripping over his robe. Sherlock absently put out an arm, and pulled John to his side. To their credit, Mycroft and Lestrade didn't twitch an eyelash when John sighed loudly and crawled into Sherlock's lap, arms around his detective's neck, face resting in his curls.

"Nothing much John, I'll tell you when you wake up. I think you're still sleeping right now."

John didn't answer him, just nuzzled his face deeper into Sherlock's embrace. Sherlock smiled, and kissed his doctor, arranging the very sleepy man better in his arms.

Sherlock held his doctor, and met his brother's gaze. Mycroft nodded, and pulled out his mobile, texting his people. The Vicar was a fool, and soon to be a dead one. They would do recon of their own, and if the young soldier's information was good, they would move on Williamson.

Sherlock held John, and he shifted under the limp weight of his lover in his arms after a few minutes. John was asleep, snoring against his neck. Lestrade was resting on the table, head on his arms, equally asleep, and angled towards Mycroft. Sherlock grinned at his brother, who just lifted a brow and went back to texting.

* * *

><p><strong>11:47 AM, Christmas Eve<strong>

The sun was cresting high over the frozen hills, the light flashing intensely, blinding on the snow shrouded fields. The shadows were bluish in their deepest recesses, and that is where Jaime, Clay, and Mary stood, eight hundred yards away down the shallow valley from the small cottage that the Vicar was hiding in with his men. They had gotten here a few hours ago, Clay napping in the helicopter while the women waited for Mycroft to ambush Williamson.

Jaime had arranged her own helicopter, and it didn't take much convincing to get Mary to agree to take a short trip with her. Getting Mary out of Mycroft's townhouse had been so easy it was disappointing. She had been hoping for some trouble, but all Mary had to do was walk out the tunnel….

It was nearly noon, their own helicopter hidden from sight behind the small hill they stood on, the three of them under the boughs of a giant evergreen. Jaime was an accomplished pilot, and flew them here herself.

Jaime shifted on her feet, watching the valley through her binoculars, glad she decided to bring her rifle along with her on this adventure. If she got bored, she could start shooting out windows on the cottage, just to see if she could rile up the American. She had left the baby rifle at home; she brought the Barrett M82 with her, securely set up on the ground, and lovingly covered by a blanket so her precious darling didn't get cold. She had it set back under cover, and if she had to shoot, no one would be able to pinpoint their location in time to reach them. Though approaching a sniper tucked into cover wasn't the smartest idea…..

"Jaime, sweetheart. You're fidgeting," whispered the blonde assassin standing beside her, watching through her own set of binoculars. Jaime grinned, and settled her feet evenly on the ground.

"My lady, movement, two hundred yards east. Looks like Holmes took me at my word."

Jaime looked to where Clay was pointing, and saw several small black dots moving quickly over the landscape, hiding behind the cherry trees and bushes in the overgrown orchard surrounding the blue cottage.

"He did indeed, that's fantastic. I was all set to be bored. Mary, I'm betting Williamson runs."

"I'm not taking that bet. He's going to run for sure. He's nothing but a bully, the odds aren't in his favor right now."

"Pity. Maybe I can pick him off with my rifle if he bolts."

"What's the pity is you're the better shot, otherwise I'd do it."

Clay turned back to the cottage, and he laughed. "My lady, looks like they just saw their incoming guests. I think that's panic I see down there."

Jaime turned back from watching the MI6 teams, and laughed herself as she watched through the windows of the cottage. She caught the smallest glimpse of Williamson, running through the rooms, presumably alerting his people, far too late.

"This is sad. Where's the blood and mayhem?" Jaime grumbled, impatient to watch the spymasters go head to head in the quiet English countryside.

* * *

><p><strong>11:52<strong>

"Teams are reporting full coverage, sir. Brief visual of Williamson inside. Confirmed."

Anthea was at his shoulder, where he leaned against the SUV, listening to her relay the play by play from the assault teams. Mycroft grinned and opened the door he was leaning on. He waved to Sherlock, his little brother hopping out, feet crunching on the snow.

"We've got him in there. Looks like we owe your young soldier friend," he said to his brother, and Sherlock gave him a weird look. Mycroft held his tongue, wondering when his little brother was going to notice that he had _noticed _the soldier, as a person would notice another that was attractive. Sherlock was playing oblivious, and Mycroft let him. It's not like Sherlock had to act on the 'noticing', he just might want to accept it so it would stop distracting him. John noticed attractive people all the time.

John piled out from the SUV, shutting the door when Violet complained loudly at the cold air. He stood between the two brothers, hands tucked in his pockets, breath frosting in the bitter air. Their niece was still in there with Lestrade, the DI armed to the teeth, and Violet was grumbling about 'being babysat'. Mycroft let her complain, as no one had any intention of letting her out of their sight until Woodley was in handcuffs.

"Tell all teams to breach." Mycroft told Anthea, and she relayed the orders.

"This may be a good Christmas after all," said Mycroft, and he looked over Dr Watson's head to meet his brother's gaze. Sherlock gave him an impenetrable look, and went back to watching down the hillside to the cottage in the orchard.

* * *

><p><strong>11:55 AM<strong>

"Jaime! Look!" Mary was nearly jumping with excitement, grabbing her sleeve and pointing at the cottage. She saw exactly what had Mary so excited. Holmes was breaching the cottage. _Impressive coverage, too. They just might get him._

"Looks like I won't be killing anyone today. What a pity."

"Keep watching, you just might get your chance. He's a sneaky bastard."

"Clay, get ready to start the helicopter. We may need to leave soon."

* * *

><p><strong>12:00 Noon, Christmas Eve<strong>

Sherlock stood over the handcuffed and very angry CIA director, as the man was put on his knees in the snow. Several of his men were dead, their bodies laid out in a row next to the road to the cottage. It had been a quick matter of minutes subduing the CIA, and the ones who hadn't surrendered were dead.

Williamson had been caught trying to run out the back door, and he was promptly stopped and trussed up by the MI6 teams. Sherlock smirked at the furious man at his feet, and left him to his brother. He was bored already, thinking of the biscuits his mother had been making as they left earlier in the morning.

Mycroft gestured for his men to give them some space, and the security teams dragged away the surviving CIA agents, leaving Mycroft standing over his impotent adversary. Sherlock leaned on the side of the cottage, John and Lestrade at his side. Anthea was with Violet, at the front of the cottage, refusing to let the Holmes' scion out of the vehicle until the entire area was deemed safe.

This moment was for Mycroft, more than any of them really. Sherlock wondered what his brother was going to do. He would have no issue whatsoever if his brother was to shoot Williamson dead, right here and now. John and Lestrade might, considering their moral stance on cold-blooded killing.

"Nice to see you enjoying the country air, Silas."

"Fuck off, queer."

"Now don't be that way, mind your manners. Impressionable ears and all." Mycroft waved a hand at Sherlock, and who rolled his eyes at his brother and his humor.

Williamson spat at Mycroft's feet, and the word he used next to describe Mycroft made Sherlock stiffen in rage. He was going to march over there and punch the Vicar, but the DI beat him to it. Lestrade was at Mycroft's side faster than he should have been with his injury, a hand holding the Vicar's collar, and he delivered a bruising right hook to the man's face.

Lestrade held Williamson up, and was about to hit him again, when Mycroft grabbed his arm, and pulled him back a foot, whispering in his ear. Sherlock settled back against the wall, and huffed. John bumped his shoulder, as if to say it was okay, Greg had taken care of it.

"I should have killed you the second I walked in your office."

"Yes, that might have been wise," Mycroft told the American, who spit a globule of blood at the snow covered ground. Lestrade made to go for him again, but Mycroft held him back.

Williamson mumbled something under his breath, and Mycroft leaned down from his lofty place of superiority to try and hear what he said.

Sherlock was too far away. So was John.

Williamson exploded from the ground, zip ties broken, his hands free and snatching at the spymaster. He grabbed Mycroft with one arm, and with the other, reached a hand in Lestrade's jacket, pulling out his gun. The Vicar spun on one foot, pulling Mycroft to him as he kicked Lestrade hard in the side, the DI screaming, falling to his side in the snow.

Sherlock and John ran forward, but stopped, as the Vicar held the gun to Mycroft's temple, while the other arm slowly choked him, squeezing the life out of him, in front of them all.

* * *

><p><strong>12:00<strong>

"Jaime, look at his hands. Silas isn't secured properly…." Mary whispered worriedly to Jaime, the blonde woman concerned.

_Men and their egos_.

Jaime saw it too, the way Silas was working his wrists in the zip ties. The cold air would make the plastic brittle, easy to snap, and the big man was well aware of that. He was about to break free, and Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade were far too close.

They hadn't noticed what Silas was doing with his wrists, far too distracted by whatever it was he had said to make Lestrade foolish enough to come so close, to hit him. Lestrade would be armed, and Mycroft never carried a weapon.

_I get to kill someone after all._

Jaime dropped her binoculars, and sprinted for the Barrett. She ripped off the blanket, and threw herself to the ground beside her rifle, and drew a bead on the CIA director just as he erupted from the snow.

* * *

><p><strong>12:01<strong>

"Let's see how well you die, queer. I may not have gotten my target, but I'll die knowing you beat me to Hell." Williamson growled in his ear, his arm tightening on his neck, the gun pressed hard to his temple, and Mycroft knew he was a fool.

He wrapped his fingers around the Vicar's wrist, and tried to pry his arm away, too determined to live to care about the gun, right up until the Vicar dug the barrel harder into his temple.

The Vicar was going to snap his neck, or shoot him in the head. Kill him in front of his family, his little brother, and the man he loved. They were frozen, mere feet away, held at bay by the very angry man choking the life from him. He was fading fast, the choke hold set, the gun threatening to end him if he didn't suffocate first. Mycroft sought out Gregory's face, the DI on the ground, struggling to stand, to get to him, despite the pain etched across his handsome visage.

The darkness swept up, his sight failing, and the last thing he heard was The Vicar laughing in his ear.

* * *

><p><strong>12:01<strong>

The shot was a rolling clap of thunder, deep and violent in the silence of the valley. It shook the air, bouncing off the sides of the small cottage, loud and shocking.

Sherlock was held frozen, immobile, as the CIA director's head dissolved into a splatter of red bone fragments and brain matter, raining across the snow, spraying his brother's face in gore and debris.

Mycroft stumbled, the arms of the now dead man relaxing, and he fell to his knees before the headless corpse. The body seemed to be unaware that it was dead, and had no reason to still be standing. It was a nightmare, a tableau from a dream.

A second roll of thunder devastated the stunned hush of the valley, and the body jerked, a puppet with its strings cut, spinning to the snow covered ground. The gun went flying, landing with a puff of snowflakes a few feet from John and Sherlock.

Mycroft had a hand to his throat, coughing, dragging air into his lungs. People were shouting, yelling, running back to the small side yard where a rapidly cooling body was steaming.

Greg was sobbing in agony, tears streaking down his face, an arm clutched tight to his left side, but he managed the strength to drag himself to Mycroft. The spymaster wrapped an arm around the DI, and they held each other.

John was gripping his arm, and they stared at the now decimated body of The Vicar.

Sherlock turned, slowly, feeling blood freezing on his face from droplets that had blown on him from the first shot. He looked up the valley, and with one arm, moved John behind him. The shots had come from up the valley, the direction of those faraway pine trees standing vigil on the lonely hill, about eight hundred yards away. There was no cover close enough that any of them could get to before the sniper took them out. They must wait, and see if this was their mystery friends.

"Sniper! No one move."

Everyone froze, and Sherlock felt a peculiar sensation race over his heart. As if he had been here before, in this place and time, waiting for a sniper to decide whether he was to live or die. And it had happened, twice before. And in each instance, the same woman held his fate in her hands.

* * *

><p><strong>12:02<strong>

Jaime held the scope over Sherlock's heart, the crosshairs neatly lined up for the kill shot. Her finger rested lightly on the trigger, and she contemplated squeezing, wondering how it would feel to kill Sherlock Holmes. She heard the whispers of her long dead brother, his screams of fury on the wind.

_I thought I let you go, James. I thought I let all of this go. I can't feel this anymore, this pain._

"Jaime, don't," Mary said, kneeling at her side, her voice low, calm. She wasn't pleading for Sherlock's life, not really. Mary was asking her not to kill Sherlock for her own sake. "Sweetheart, don't kill him."

Jaime gritted her teeth, and felt tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. Her tears froze as she cried, stinging and itching on her chilled face. She dragged in a deep breath, and did her best to fight off the demons screaming in her brother's voice. Her body wasn't cooperating.

The ghost of James Moriarty wanted his revenge, even at the expense of his baby sister's remaining sanity. Jaime stared at the great consulting detective through the scope, and Sherlock seemed to know that he was in danger. That she was deciding his fate. He may not know who held the rifle, but he somehow sensed the conflict in her heart. His face was serene, patient even, and he was staring directly at where they were hidden in the pines.

Her finger began to tighten on the trigger, the rifle unwavering, the crosshairs centered on Sherlock's heart.


	49. The Only Gift That Matters

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**WARNING: Violence, and sex. A LOT of Sex. Enjoy!**

**A/N: My dear friend silvereyedbitch must get some credit for this chapter's awesomeness. She talked me through the motions a physician would take while examining Gregory after the confrontation with the Vicar. Otherwise, it would have been a lot less of a fun scene, as John would have just gotten Gregory a Band-Aid and that's it. So THANK YOU! And everyone go check out her work, she is exceptional.****

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Forty Nine<strong>

"_**The Only Gift That Matters"**_

**Christmas Eve, 12:03 PM**

"Jaime Moriarty, let it go. Let him go."

It was a whisper, a prayer, spoken so softly Jaime strained to hear it over the ghost of her brother, his screams loud in her ears. It echoed in her mind, that simple phrase dragging her attention from the detective standing so still in the snow. He was a specter of grief and misery, his tall frame a black shadow in the pristine field of white.

Jaime stared through the scope at Sherlock Holmes, her finger a bare inclination from taking his life. The air stank of gunpowder and ozone, the Barrett a live creature in her hands, the malice of the rifle whispering to her. She felt everything in this endless moment; the cold, dry earth beneath her, the stifled air under the pine, the sound of Mary breathing next to her, and Clay shifting on his feet. Jaime grit her teeth, her whole body yearning to pull the trigger, her mind overrun by a voice that wasn't hers.

"Sweetheart, let it go," came that whisper again, from the blonde assassin kneeling at her side. It broke through the chaos, gave her a focus aside from the screams of man long dead. "Let it go, Jaime."

"He killed James." She growled out, sweat trickling down her temple, freezing in the subzero air.

"No sweetheart. James killed himself. You know that Sherlock didn't kill him. James left you; no one made him pull the trigger. Don't reward his selfishness by killing Sherlock."

_He left me, he left me… He killed himself. He left me…._

Jaime shook, her arm cramping, her finger seizing. Jaime shrieked, her mind and heart battling, and she pulled the trigger. The Barrett recoiled, and Jaime let it push her away, falling back from the weapon to the snow free ground under the great pine tree.

Mary sprang to her feet, eyes trained on the small cottage. Jaime knew exactly where her shot landed.

Jaime never missed.

Sherlock Holmes was alive.

The Vicar had a third bullet hole in him, in a very rude place.

Jaime giggled, sweat and tears freezing, her breath frosting the air above her as she stared up into the dark recesses of the pine tree. She felt different. Something had changed. She had changed. She felt something snap inside, deep where the howling wasteland of her soul waited, empty and vacant. A break, a crack, to her core and up through her heart. There was something there, deep inside. Something she hadn't felt since she was very young, safety and hope a reality instead of a dream long forgotten. So long ago she had no name for what shimmered now in the deep dark of her being. Jaime laughed, euphoric, and rolled to her knees.

She laughed as Mary looked at her, a mixture of disbelief and pride evident in her beautiful blue eyes. Jaime picked up the Barrett, its great weight nothing in her arms, and let Clay pick up the blankets, the shell casings from her three shots. She hoisted the rifle up on one shoulder, balancing the long weapon easily from many years of practice.

Jaime picked one of the shell casings, and gave it to Mary. The blonde assassin took it, the large piece of brass appearing bigger in her small hand. She closed Mary's fist around it, and squeezed. It was the shell from her last shot. Mary deserved to keep it. If she hadn't asked her to spare Holmes, Jaime would have killed him. Her plea made something happen inside of Jaime. She didn't know what it was, but she liked the way it was making her feel.

Her blood felt electrified, her muscles charged with adrenaline. She was alive.

"Let's get you back to London, Mary. Unless you want to wait for the Holmes brothers to waltz up here, and we can all say hello. That will be decidedly awkward."

* * *

><p><strong>12:03<strong>

The third shot went off, and Sherlock put a hand to his chest, expecting to feel a void, a gaping hole rapidly filling with blood. Instead he felt nothing but the cold silk of his shirt, and his heart beating under his hand.

A spray of shredded flesh and hot blood erupted from the headless body of the Vicar, a final insult to the belligerent assassin, as the sniper took aim at his crotch. Whoever was shooting, was most decidedly female. It was a very personal shot to make, and not one a man would contemplate.

Sherlock raised a brow at that, and found his shoulders shaking. Tension flowed from his muscles, and Sherlock laughed, the deep rumble filling the small clearing. John came out from behind him, a hand on his arm, with a questioning look on his face.

Sherlock roped an arm around John's neck, pulling his doctor to him, catching his mouth in an urgent kiss. John was confused, but he responded in kind, up on his toes, lips molding and clinging. John dropped back after a moment, his eyes holding Sherlock's, and the detective shivered down to the soles of his feet, and not from the cold. Nothing quite like almost dying to get one interested in all sorts of things.

"Greg!" Mycroft shouted, surrounded by over half his men, where he was kneeling on the snow covered earth. Lestrade was pale, gasping for breath, leaning back on Mycroft's chest.

The spymaster was covered in blood, a river of it down his shoulder and chest, spray across his face and head. None of it was his, all of it the remnants of Silas Williamson. Mycroft was pale, eyes showing his stress.

John pulled away from Sherlock, and pushed through the people clustered around the men on the ground. He knelt at Lestrade's side, in full doctor mode.

Sherlock looked away, back up the valley. The lonely pines stood on the hill, their boughs thick and dark. Sherlock took one last look at the men on the ground, and walked away. He set off up the shallow valley, walking through the snows drifts. He wanted to see what he could learn about their guardian angel.

Whoever made those shots had impeccable, absolutely perfect aim. It was a matter of centimeters between killing the Vicar, and killing Mycroft. Zero chances to try again if the first shot failed. There were two people with that level of skill who had been in England within the last few months. One was pregnant and in hiding, the other was dead.

She was supposed to be dead.

* * *

><p>"Mycroft, don't hold him so tightly. Ease up, let me look." John put his hand on the spymaster's wrist, and gently tugged his arm down, away from Greg's shoulders. Mycroft's face was stricken, pale under the blood, and he looked nothing like he usually did. John felt his heartstrings ping in his chest, and he had no doubt that Mycroft Holmes loved Gregory Lestrade. His face said it all. "Mycroft, let me help him. I won't hurt him."<p>

Mycroft was breathing hard, nearly panting. His green eyes clung to John's, and the doctor did his best to exude an unruffled, reassuring attitude. He needed Mycroft to be relaxed; as well as anyone could be with blood and gore splattered all over him.

Greg was breathing fast and shallow, his left arm cradling his side, tears streaked down his cheeks and freezing in the cold air. John scooted in closer, and put his hand on Greg's side, under his coat, where his own hand was pressing tight. His shirt was white, and John moved his hand the smallest amount. He saw no blood, nothing seeping through. He didn't think there was a rupture, but he needed to see the area without his shirt on. Williamson's kick had connected solidly over the GSW entry site and the surgery scars, and Greg was in a serious amount of pain.

"Okay, get him up. Into the SUV, back to the Holmes' residence. Greg, I'm going to look you over, make sure you didn't reinjure anything. You're okay, just breathe through the pain." John stood, and looked at the security teams milling about, their master useless in his shock and worry.

John sighed, and snapped out orders, some of the military captain coming out in his voice, even after all these years out of the service. He suppressed a grin that threatened to come out when every man in uniform snapped to attention.

"Help them into the vehicles, now! You two, follow Sherlock, keep him out of trouble." John pointed at two team members, and waved out over the clearing, where the tall form of Sherlock was rapidly disappearing into the snow shrouded trees. The two men he pointed out peeled away from the group and followed the detective, and John directed the others in getting Mycroft and Lestrade to their feet.

Anthea came skidding around the corner of the small cottage, and her face was as white as the snow she ran through. Violet was at her heels, and the two girls blasted past John and Greg, and went straight to Mycroft. John paid them little attention, focused on Greg. Anthea and Violet each took an arm of the shaken spymaster, exclaiming over the blood and gory bits covering his head and upper torso.

John helped the DI into the back of an SUV, and looked out through the orchard, in the direction Sherlock disappeared. The two security team members were following him, and John instructed that a SUV remain behind to wait for them.

Anthea and Violet were hovering over Mycroft, and helped him into the SUV. Mycroft wasn't paying them any mind at all, keeping his eyes on the pale man panting fast on the seat in front of him.

John pulled out his mobile, and texted Sherlock.

**Lestrade's hurt, Mycroft is in shock. Taking them back to your parent's place. SUV and driver remaining behind for you at cottage. Be careful. I love you. –JW**

John sat beside Greg, keeping an eye on the DI as the SUV took the bumpy, snowy roads out from the orchard. His mobile buzzed, and he saw a reply from his detective.

**I'll be fine. Found something interesting. I'll tell you once I get back. –SH**

John went to put his mobile away, but it buzzed one more time.

**I love you. –SH**

John smiled, a thumb tracing the words, before he put the mobile in his coat, his attention back on his patient.

* * *

><p>The large pine tree was a few yards ahead, the area muted, hushed. There was the faint whispering of snow falling from trees, the echoing pop of frozen branches moving in the slight wind. The two security members were behind him a few yards, waiting patiently for a word from him on what to do.<p>

Sherlock saw the barest hint of movement, and felt a strong sense of déjà vu. He held up a hand, stilling the men at his back as a tall, familiar shape melted out of the shadows of the great pine. It was his soldier friend, smiling that sweet smile again.

Sherlock shifted on his feet, being careful not to show any emotion. He was armed, the young soldier, but his sidearm was under his jacket, and it was zipped up to his chin. No threat.

"This is becoming a habit, isn't it?" The younger man asked, stopping a few feet away, hands at his sides, and he had a calm attitude of waiting for something.

Sherlock looked past him to the trees, and heard the sound of an engine roaring to life. It was a helicopter, the blades spinning. The machine was just over the hill from where they stood. Sherlock made to go forward, to see who it was before they took off, but the soldier was there in front of him, having moved so fast Sherlock hadn't seen it. The two men at his back raised their weapons, but the young soldier made no aggressive moves beyond that smile that bothered Sherlock so much.

"Please don't make me hurt you, Mr. Holmes." The soldier begged, face calm but with a pleading edge to it that halted Sherlock in his tracks. Sherlock huffed in annoyance at being stopped. He caught a glimpse of a small black helicopter taking off as it cleared the hill and trees, pulling away to disappear into the horizon.

"I take it that was your boss? She made that shot, didn't she?" Sherlock demanded, brow arched in question, eyes boring into the younger man's.

The soldier blinked, and tilted his head. He seemed to be thinking about what to say, as if he had orders to work around just to answer him. There was that smile again, and Sherlock couldn't stop himself. He backed up a step, disguising the move as a need to find firmer footing in the snow. He needed firmer footing for certain, but not physically.

"Yes, that was her. I can see I wasn't careful enough to keep her gender from you. Don't tell her, she gets a bit cranky when crossed." The younger man looked past Sherlock's shoulder to the security men who still had their weapons trained on him. He smiled, but this time it was a cocky grin that said what he saw was amusing, and kind of silly. Sherlock saw no fear in him at all. He wasn't afraid of the men, not even a little. "My car is parked this way, I must be off. I can drop you off at your place if you want."

He pointed casually over his shoulder, in a direction that Sherlock knew held a small access road for the orchard. Sherlock was tempted, merely to keep asking this soldier about what was going on, but somehow Sherlock felt odd at accepting a ride from this young man. Off center for some weird reason.

"No, thank you. I have my own ride." He tipped his head at the men behind him, who had slowly lowered their guns a moment before. "Do tell your employer she has my thanks, and that of my brother as well. The Vicar was going to kill him. We owe her a great deal, for the last week. Whatever her motive is for protecting my brother and myself, this is all appreciated regardless."

The young soldier started to turn, but stopped. He got a look on his face, and Sherlock was about to ask what was wrong when he stepped forward, a big hand reaching up between them. Sherlock looked down, saw the soldier's mobile in his hand. The younger man opened up a menu, and let Sherlock get a glimpse of the mobile's number. It was quick, and subtle, and the men behind them saw nothing. Sherlock memorized it instantly, wondering at the implications.

"Not a problem. And it wasn't just for you, either. I've got to be going. The Vicar is dead, my job is over. I've a bed to get to, one I haven't seen in days. Don't waste my efforts, okay? Hate to read in the papers that the great Sherlock Holmes died…again."

He backed off, the nameless soldier, and smiled one last time at Sherlock before turning away. Sherlock sighed, annoyed he was leaving without having answered any of his questions, but unwilling to force the issue. His demeanor was one that implied he was willing to be an ally, and to push the issue would endanger possible access to his boss.

That smile on the younger man's face was making him edgy. If he didn't know any better, he'd say that the soldier was flirting with him.

Sherlock struggled with restraint, and gave in as the soldier walked away from him. He had to know, he needed to know. He hated not knowing. His suspicion was too strong not to vocalize it.

"Wait!" Sherlock hadn't meant to shout, but he did, and the soldier stopped just before he slipped away into the trees. Sherlock ran forward, barely avoiding tripping in the snow. He stopped a few feet from the soldier, and asked his last question. "You serve Jaime Moriarty, don't you?"

Sherlock was still too far from the younger man to clearly see his reaction, but the extreme stillness that came over the soldier was in itself an answer. Their eyes met and held over the distance for a heartbeat, before the young man looked away, down to the ground.

"I thought Jaime Moriarty was dead, sir." His voice was flat, the polite tone gone. The kind man was shifting, his demeanor hardening and gentle smile fading. He had a rigid set to his shoulders, with his hands fists at his sides. He looked back up at Sherlock, and there was something there in the way he stood that told Sherlock he was too close to the truth for this man's comfort. "But I heard that her men served her faithfully, and out of love."

He was gone from sight before the last word faded away into silence. Sherlock never saw him leave, his ability to mask his presence impressive. Sherlock tucked his hands in his pockets, chin in his collar, and looked at the pine tree. He sighed loudly, finally feeling the wet cold in his shoes, the leather ill-suited in protecting his feet from the elements. His missed his city.

Sherlock trudged up the hill, and shivered at the cold dark air under the pine tree. He stood, and stared at the snow free ground under the branches for a long time. What he saw tilted the world on its axis, and he wondered what he was going to tell John. He had no proof, just a hunch and the needling conviction that Jaime Moriarty was alive, and that Mary knew it too.

His nameless soldier wasn't a soldier anymore. He was a mercenary, and his master was a Moriarty. Or mistress.

The men guarding him were bored, the one interesting thing about their field trip was the boss's freaky little brother getting hit on by the stranger.

* * *

><p>Greg was pale, especially against the dark leather of the couch cushions. Mycroft was sitting in an armchair beside the couch, watching as the doctor helped the DI remove his coat and jacket. John had sent Violet upstairs for his medical bag, and Mycroft found himself thankful for the doctor's urge to always be prepared. Violet had run back down all three flights of stairs, alerting the whole house to the tense situation in the sitting room.<p>

Anthea was standing at his side, a bowl of water and a hand towel on the coffee table in front of them. Violet was hovering, right up until his mother took her by her arm and guided her out of the room, into the kitchen. His mother was cooking Christmas dinner, and the smell would be heavenly if he wasn't so worried about his lover.

Mycroft couldn't function enough to argue with Anthea when she gently pulled off his coat, dropping the blood soaked garment on the floor. He didn't resist when she tugged off his suit jacket, the collar equally soaked with blood and body bits. She peeled it away from him, her delicate hands soothing. Mycroft sighed, and took a brief moment of comfort from her familiar presence. She ran her fingers down the side of his face, his neck, in a move so subtle he thought he imagined it all.

Mycroft watched as the doctor pulled Greg's shirt off, the DI naked from the waist up. He was detached in his shock, and he was able to see and analyze the DI's physique without being overly distracted by it. Muscles still firm and defined despite the last five weeks of inactivity, chest smooth and nearly hairless. His skin was a darker shade than Mycroft's, as if the DI spent a lot of time with his shirt off in the summer months, so much so he had a permanent tan even in winter.

John had his stethoscope out, carefully listening to Greg's lungs, face serious. Greg jumped a little at the cold metal, but tolerated the doctor. Mycroft watched as John pulled out his blood pressure cuff, and attached it to Greg's arm, his competent hands moving Greg gently to how he needed him. Mycroft shifted on his chair, so engrossed in what the doctor was doing to his lover that he didn't notice that Anthea was unbuttoning his own shirt. Her elegant hands went to his tie, undoing the knot, her skin making brief contact with his, distracting him from watching Gregory. The tie was pulled away, and fell to the floor to land on his equally ruined coat and jacket.

She tugged gently at his waistband, pulling his dress shirt free, and he felt the fire warmed air on his bare shoulders. Greg was watching him, his breathing calmer, and their eyes locked across the few feet separating them. Greg flicked his eyes at the woman who was wiping away the blood from his face and neck, before coming back to his eyes.

John took off the cuff, and put his hand on Greg's wrist, while counting the time off on his watch. Mycroft tracked the doctor's hands, as they pushed and pressed gently on the ribs next to the scars on Greg's abdomen. Greg sucked in a breath, flinching as John found a sore spot, a bruise already forming on the newly healed flesh crisscrossed by scars.

Anthea moved the towel down the curve of his neck, tracing a line of blood past his collarbone, to where it disappeared under his white tank undershirt. She rinsed the towel off in the bowl, and went back to picking bone fragments from his hair. He would take a shower here soon, but not until Greg was cleared by the doctor. A small hand was on his back, and Mycroft felt the trembling in the fine boned fingers. It was the only betrayal of Anthea's discomfort. Her other hand was soft, her movements clean and loving. Her touch left warm trails of awareness on his skin, and he sighed, his mind coming down from the cold place it had gone to after the Vicar fell to the ground.

She was loving, her affection for him so clear in how she touched him. Mycroft kept his gaze on the two men in front of him, but part of his attention was pulled to the woman doing her best to pretend she wasn't in love with him. That his near death hadn't just terrified her to her breaking point. His Anthea, his rock, his first thought in a crisis that needed solving. She was so vital to him, and he had no idea how to solve the problem of her heart, and his. And Greg's. Because to keep the man he loved, he may have to surrender the woman he loved. He thought her dead and gone once, and her loss had destroyed him. To lose her again, no matter the reward of Gregory's love, just might shatter him. He was caught, trapped, and had no way out of this life altering realization.

Mycroft watched as John helped Greg sit up. The DI was moving easier, not flinching overmuch as John moved to his side, his hands running over the leanly defined muscles of Greg's back. Mycroft found his attention pulled back to the man on the couch, and the doctor who was touching him intimately. Skilled hands dusted over strong muscles, and Mycroft's gaze was tracing the path those hands took as they followed the scars and bruises on Greg's back.

Mycroft shifted in his chair, and found himself in the very awkward position of being jealous. John was a doctor, and he was taking extra care to make sure Gregory was all right, that the Vicar hadn't caused any damage to the recently healed gunshot wounds. He knew this, but seeing another man touch the man he loved was bothering him far more than he wanted to admit. And he was equally disturbed by the fact he was enjoying the way Anthea was tending to him, and that Greg was watching, and he didn't seem to mind at all that a woman had her hands all over his lover…

_Does he see that she loves me?_

"Okay." John startled them all, as he leaned back from Greg, reaching for the DI's shirt and handing it to him. John saw Mycroft jump, and Greg tore his gaze away from the delicate hands playing with Mycroft's hair. John tossed a look between them all, but he obviously didn't see anything amiss, or notice the odd tension in the room. "Greg, you're going to be fine. I'll check that bruising later, and I didn't see any ruptures in the scars. No liquid in your lungs, I didn't hear any fluid buildup. No internal bleeding, I'm certain. You'll be very sore for a few days, take your meds, and minimize strain. Don't baby it though, avoid getting stiff muscles."

Greg coughed at that last part, and Mycroft hid a grin by ducking his head. Anthea was slowly pulling away from him, and as she did, Mycroft finally noticed that she had wedged her hip against his shoulder, her soft body warm and sorely missed as she pulled back. Mycroft coughed himself, discomforted, yet wishing her back, and tossed her a small smile in thanks as she picked up the bowl and bloody towel. She gave him a watery smile, and left, not saying a word, or looking at the DI where he sat on the couch.

"Thanks, mate. I'll go take a shower then, get the rest of that blood off Mycroft." Greg slowly stood, being extra careful as he did. John had a hand out, and Mycroft narrowed his gaze as the doctor hovered over his lover.

He really wasn't used to being jealous. And yet, the few times he had been jealous in the last couple of months was always due to John Watson! First his brother's regard and trust, and now Gregory. Admittedly John had no designs on Gregory, but still, his hands were all over his lover. Mycroft stifled those stray emotions, banishing them as best he could as he stood himself, leaving his bloody garments on the floor.

Mycroft nodded to John in thanks, and walked behind Gregory as the DI took the stairs up, one at a time and cautious. Mycroft was worried, his concern over his lover falling on the steep stairs. Greg kept his balance, and Mycroft realized that Gregory's backside was at eye level, firm hard thighs and hips all in perfect view. The DI had yet to put his shirt back on, his finely shaped muscles and the glorious curve of his spine so temptingly close Mycroft felt his mouth watering. His hands itched with the urge to touch, to grab his hips and turn him on the stairs, his groin at the perfect height, to use his teeth to drag down the zipper of his fly…..

Mycroft was so absorbed by Greg that he stumbled slightly as they reached the top of the stairs, on the third floor finally. Greg tugged at his hand, pulling him to the bathroom halfway between his room and Sherlock's.

Mycroft was finding his ability to speak suddenly vanquished, his mind overrun by stress, nerves, conflicting emotions, and a rising tide of lust. Greg had a look on his face, an expression Mycroft couldn't discern. Greg stopped at the closed door of the bathroom, and leaned back against it, gently pulling Mycroft to him. Mycroft searched his eyes, the deep colors vivid and full of emotions. His gaze dropped to firm and supple lips, the slight shadow over the top lip enhancing the sexy curve.

Mycroft dragged in a sharp breath, and rested himself gently on his lover, hips to hips. Greg's hands came to arrest on his waist, rubbing in tiny circles, pulling his undershirt free from his waistband. Lean fingers slipped underneath, and Mycroft leaned his head forward the tiniest bit, whispering his lips over Greg's, barely enough contact to count as a kiss, but enough to send a ribbon of lust through his veins.

Greg was breathing faster, his hands running under Mycroft's shirt freely now, and Mycroft lifted his hands to frame the DI's face, cupping the handsome face between his palms. He kissed Greg, but differently than any kiss he'd given him before. He took his time, feeling the way the other man's lips moved against his, how every plump wet touch made his body shiver, how Greg tasted depending on the depth of the kiss. Heat spindled out from his stomach, spiraling up through his chest, to meet the line of heat running from his lips to his chest. His fingers were tingling, his breathing faster.

They had yet to speak, no words needed as they communicated how they each felt about the other. Greg's hands were hot on his skin, and he pulled back from the kiss just enough for his shirt to be pulled off over his head. He touched his tongue to Greg's bottom lip, tracing the fullness before dipping quickly inside his warm mouth. He pulled back before the other man could catch his tongue, teasing and flirty with his kiss.

Gregory was aroused, his body determined to satisfy itself regardless of his injury. Mycroft felt the hard heat through their trousers, and gyrated his hips the tiniest amount, jumping when the head of his cock caught on the hard surface of Gregory's zipper.

Greg gasped, and pulled back from the kiss, lips wet, eyes hooded and face flushed. "Bathroom, now."

Mycroft nodded, and kept their bodies plastered together as they stumbled through the doorway, slamming the door shut behind them, locking it securely.

Mycroft found himself pushed back on the sink counter, the DI undoing his belt, his hands efficiently removing the layers separating them. Mycroft was naked in no time, shoes thrown in the corner, underwear gone, socks ripped away. He was panting, so aroused his cock nearly hurt from the pressure. Greg put his hands on his own belt, and stripped off his remaining clothing, carefully pulling his clothes off over his erection.

Mycroft swallowed raggedly at the sight, Gregory big and enticing. He reached out a hand, wanting to touch him, but Gregory pulled away, and went to the bathtub. He yanked back the shower curtain, and stoppered the tub. He flipped on the water, and looked about for soap, finding one he liked and pouring it in the water.

Steam rose from the basin, and Gregory held out a hand to him, and Mycroft took it, letting the DI pull him into the warm, swirling waters of the very large, claw footed tub. Gregory sat back at one end, and Mycroft the other, both being very careful with their feet under the warm water and bubbles.

The water level rose, the heat soaking into his tense muscles, and Mycroft sighed happily. Gregory was alive, he was alive, the Vicar was dead, the threat to his lover gone at last. He hadn't realized how tense he was the last week until the tension was gone, easing from his muscles and heart. He shuddered, and put a wet hand to his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He refused to cry, this was not a situation one cried in. Mycroft Holmes didn't cry.

The water shut off, and he heard Gregory moving through the water, waves lapping at his chest. Greg sat on the bottom on the tub, between his knees, their legs entwining under the water, and a strong hand came to rest under his chin, water dripping. Mycroft lifted his head, and shuddered at the love he saw on the DI's face.

"I almost lost you." Greg whispered to him, hand caressing his face. "He almost killed you, and I was useless. I couldn't save you."

"Greg, no. Don't…" He couldn't stand the pain and guilt on his lover's face. Greg looked so sad, the melancholy mixed with love. He leaned forward, the water splashing around them, and he kissed Greg, trying to remove the misery from his handsome face. He pulled back, and tugged at Gregory until the DI was in his lap, his legs wrapped around his waist. "I love you. I'm here, you're here, and we're together."

Their kiss was fast, deep, urgent, and Mycroft slipped a hand under the water, stroking the hard cock he found. Gregory groaned loudly in his mouth, his legs spread wide to wrap around his waist, exposing him to Mycroft's touch. Mycroft held nothing back, caressing his lover until he was close to coming, water frothing, hips thrusting into his hand.

He was so aroused he fought not to come, Gregory's writhing teasing his cock. He met his lover's eyes, and silently asked for his turn. Greg nodded, and brought his hips closer, lifting up in the buoyant water above the hard heat of Mycroft's cock. His wet stomach rubbed slickly over Mycroft's chest, as he lowered himself down, and Mycroft gritted his teeth at the tight, hot fit of the most appealing and deliriously sexy ass he had ever taken. Greg moaned, his body shaking, and Mycroft gripped his hips, pulling down on his hard length, burying himself hilt deep.

He was so tight, the pressure so intense, that Mycroft gripped his hips hard, and refused to let him move, breathing through the urge to fuck his lover as hard as he could. Gregory wouldn't be able to take it, and neither would the bathroom. He was so deep he felt every breath Gregory took, the thrumming of his pulse, the tensing of his thigh muscles as his legs gripped his waist. Gregory was panting in his ear, making eager, wanton little noises, gasping at the throbbing member thrust inside of him.

"Oh God, you're so fucking hard…." Greg panted, plastering his body to Mycroft's chest, arms bound around his neck, and he moaned as Mycroft thrust a little at his words. "Please, Mycroft, please…"

"What do you want?" Mycroft whispered to him, hands pushing him down harder on his cock. Greg shuddered, ass clenching deliciously.

"I want you… to fuck me…" He tried his best to lift up, to fuck himself on Mycroft's hard length, but Mycroft held him fast, refusing to let him move. Gregory whimpered, and bit his neck in protest. Water spilled over the top of the tub, bubbles everywhere.

Mycroft grinned in triumph, his lover exactly at the point he wanted him. He shifted his grip, and carefully picked Gregory up, the water helping him lift. His ass was so tight that he almost couldn't move him. Gregory gave a small scream, head tossed back, panting, and his fingers scrambling at his back, nails biting. He pulled him up, all the way to the tip, the head throbbing, and he groaned himself at the tight grip. Greg was begging, words a jumbled mess, and Mycroft pulled him back down, all the way, past the deepest point he should go this early on before his lover loosened up. Gregory moaned, begging him to keep going.

Greg's nails dug at his back, his chest heaving, and Mycroft shrugged off the worry he might cause Gregory to overexert himself. What he felt, what he was making Gregory feel was too important to stop, to shortchange. This man was his, and he had him, now and in his arms. His forever.

"You are mine. No one is ever going to threaten you again." Mycroft whispered in his lover's ear, and eased his grip. Gregory moaned, and took over the pace. He put his knees down on either side of Mycroft's hips, keeping the spymaster lodged securely, arms on his shoulders. Mycroft leaned them back on the side of the tub, and Greg took over completely. He drove himself down, fast and hard on Mycroft, and the pressure was intense. Water sloshed over the edge of the tub, waves rushing between them, as Greg lifted up, almost pulling Mycroft free. Mycroft gasped, and held Gregory around the waist, loving the way he felt moving in his arms.

Greg fucked himself on Mycroft, and the spymaster let him drive the pace. His lover rose over him, dipping down in the sudsy water with each thrust. Their eyes met, and held, sweat beading on the DI's brow, and he gently grabbed a fistful of Mycroft's hair. Gregory pulled his head back, and gripped, and rode. His mouth found that tender spot on Mycroft's neck, and the spymaster groaned as Gregory sucked and nibbled, the suction strong enough to leave a mark. He didn't care, not one bit. The world could rot for all he cared about anyone seeing the love mark.

Water spilled in a great splash as Greg took them faster, holding Mycroft's head back, panting eagerly. Mycroft let his hands slip down, and he gripped the hard cock rubbing across his stomach. Greg groaned loudly, eyes rolling back the slightest amount as Mycroft stroked him. The DI's weight kept him from moving, and he struggled to focus, wanting Greg to come when he did. He was close, the wet hot friction of his lover pushing him relentlessly to the edge. Greg was showing every indicator of enjoyment, driving himself harder and harder down on Mycroft, the soapy water letting his lover's cock impale him with every rise and fall of powerfully muscled hips.

Suddenly Greg reached out, his hands both gripping the edge of the tub, and he slammed himself down on Mycroft, head thrown back, a strangled shout ripped from his chest. He jerked in Mycroft's hands, coming hard. Mycroft felt like a fist was squeezing him harder and harder as Gregory climaxed around him, and the shuddering of the man on top of him made his orgasm roll through him.

His cries melded with Gregory's, and the DI flew apart on top of him. He had no control over his body, and his legs kicked against the interior walls of the cast iron tub, his hands clinging to his lover's hips. His orgasm was so powerful it hurt, a twisting snap in his groin as he pumped himself inside the DI, deep and hot. So blistering hot he felt like he was on fire, a flame held to his skin. He was surprised the water wasn't boiling.

Greg panted in his ear, head drooping on his shoulder. Mycroft held him tenderly, and the DI flinched just the smallest amount as he withdrew.

"Wasn't expecting that." Greg whispered in his ear, laughing softly.

"Me, neither."

"Think we should change the water. You've still got blood and some weird bits in your hair."

Mycroft laughed, surprising himself at how wonderful he felt. He was no stranger to death, and having it happen so close to him shouldn't have bothered him as much as it did. What had bothered him was nearly having Gregory watch him die. If the situation had been reversed, watching his lover die would have been the most horrific thing he could imagine. He laughed now because it was over; The Vicar could no longer threaten his lover. Gregory was safe now, and he would stay that way.

Greg sat back, falling from Mycroft's lap. He found the drain, and let the water out of the tub. He reached a hand out, and Mycroft felt his lips twitch into a tiny smile as Gregory held his hand.

* * *

><p>Violet sat at the kitchen table, eyeing her grandmother as she took a tray of cookies out of the oven.<p>

_Biscuits, they call cookies biscuits here. So weird. But that smells fucking amazing._

"Sherlock never cooks. He always makes John order delivery… er, takeaway. Whatever." She said as she did her best to rework a line of code that was being stubborn. Her grandmother put the tray down on the table, within very tempting distance of Violet. The hacker pondered the tray, wondering if burnt fingers would be worth it.

"My son is a gifted chemist, of course he can cook. He just thinks it's boring." Marion pulled off her apron, and settled down at the table, reaching for her tea. "He can bake, too."

"He should be back soon, John said he stayed behind to find out who the sniper was." Violet casually inched her hand out towards the tray, but stopped when she caught her grandmother watching her, one brow raised as if she was daring her to reach for the cookie. Violet pulled her hand back, but grinned at her grandmother. She'd sneak one later.

"Always reckless, that one. So confident he could outthink, and out maneuver everyone. Trouble was, he usually could." Marion sipped her tea, and smiled fondly at whatever memory she was reliving, her eyes shining. Violet stilled, struck by how much she saw of Sherlock in his mother. "So he never learned he wasn't invincible."

It wasn't appearance, but for the eyes. Sherlock had inherited his mother's eyes. It was strange, to see those heavenly eyes in another's face. Sherlock got his features and form from his father, but his mannerisms, his method of moving and behaving, it was all his mother. Same intelligence, too.

Marion caught her looking, and Violet pretended she hadn't been staring. She went back to the screen, and growled in frustration at the stubborn line of code. She was nearly done, and this last piece was driving her insane.

"Whatever is bothering you, dear?"

"This code is driving me fuck…..umm…. driving me nuts."

"Hmmm…." Her grandmother peered over her shoulder, and she was about to explain what she was doing when she was utterly floored by Marion reaching past her to tap the screen. "You have that bit backwards, dear. Looks like a typo."

Violet stared at Marion for a moment, and then looked at the line of code she pointed out. Her jaw dropped as she realized her grandmother had found what was messing with her code, the same code she hadn't been able to finish in over a week. She fixed the typo, and tied up the program.

Violet pushed back from the table, and ran to the window in the kitchen, and grabbed a small metal box on her way from her bag. She opened the window, and slapped the box down on the sill, turning it on before slamming the window shut. She ran back to the table, and hit Enter.

"Dear, whatever are you doing?"

"I just opened a secure line to MI6, untraceable. I could just use Mycroft's laptop, its satellite enabled, but he'll see what I'm doing. He can't see this, not yet." She winked at her grandmother, and watched the programs race across her screen, looking for errors.

"Is it illegal?"

Violet hesitated, sitting down back in her chair. Her grandmother was watching her intently, but she saw no judgment on her face. Violet watched as her program executed, and wondered how Mycroft would react to his Christmas present.

"Sort of, technically. But it's for a good reason, I promise."

"I'm sure it is. You have the same look Mycroft used to get when he was trying to get out of trouble."

"What? No I don't! Ugh!" Violet groaned, and she laughed as Marion poked her side with a fingertip. She laughed right up until Anthea came in the kitchen, heading for the sink, a bowl in her hands.

Anthea didn't say a word, just put the bowl in the sink, and gripped the counter with both hands. Her head was down, her shoulders sagging, as if she were tired. Sad, even. Violet had no idea what happened, but figured it must be her uncle. The only one to ever make Anthea upset was her uncle.

Anthea suddenly pushed away from the sink, grabbing her coat from the rack beside the door. She ran outside, having said not a word to either woman. It was so atypical of her usual behavior that Violet just sat there, stunned.

"Dear, go after her. She shouldn't be alone, not after what happened this morning."

Violet didn't have to be told twice. She shot to her feet, and planted a kiss on her grandmother's cheek before tearing after her girlfriend. She grabbed her own jacket, and followed Anthea out into the snow.

Anthea was nearly running, heading down the hill at a reckless pace. Violet zipped up her jacket, and ran after her. Anthea disappeared into the trees, and Violet barely caught up to her in time before she was lost in the pines. She reached out, and gently stopped the MI6 operative, her hand cold and stiff.

"Thea! Baby, wait. What's wrong?"

Anthea was crying. She was crying. The only time Violet had ever seen Anthea cry was the night Blackwood exploded, when she spoke to Mycroft, to tell him she was alive. It was those tears now that made Violet see what was wrong, Anthea needn't say a word. Her heart suffered for her realization.

She stared at the brilliant green eyes, the perfect face, and saw the hurt and bleeding woman under the exterior shell of perfection. Violet swallowed, and let her hand drop away. She wasn't in love, had never been in love herself, but she saw the signs clearly enough in Anthea. She had been suspecting it, ever since the day they first met.

"You really are in love with Mycroft, aren't you?" Her question was hushed, to match the dread and sadness she was feeling. Violet felt like it was already over, her brief days of happy gone.

"I… oh, Violet. I'm so sorry." Anthea choked out, her hands covering her mouth as she cried, heart wrenching sobs that shook her whole body. Violet didn't know what to do, she was torn. Part of her said to walk away, to wash her hands of an impossible relationship, and the girl dragging her through frustration and pain.

She couldn't. Not watching this proud, sweet, smart and sexy woman crumble in front of her. She had known going into this that Anthea felt something for Mycroft, and he for her. Violet had thought it safe to make her move, as Mycroft was head over heels in love with Greg.

Violet hugged Anthea, pressing her face to her shoulder, letting the other woman cry her broken heart out. Her cries echoed off the towering trees, to fade away into the snow-covered grove. The wind was dead, still, and the sun lacked any warmth.

* * *

><p><strong>Christmas Eve, 1:30 PM<strong>

John was pacing in the front room, watching out the windows for Sherlock to return. He had been waiting as patiently as he could, but after an hour, he was starting to worry. The cottage was less than a mile away, and Sherlock had texted that he was okay and on his way back, but John wouldn't feel better until his detective was with him again. He was taking too long.

John sighed, and gave up. He pulled on his coat, and stepped out onto the front stoop, feeling ridiculous and better all the same for being one step closer to his lover. He held up a hand against the weak afternoon light, and saw an SUV come roaring up the long drive. It was the one he had ordered to stay behind with Sherlock at the orchard, and John sighed loudly in relief.

He ran down the front walkway, and met the vehicle as it screeched to a stop in front of the red house. The two men and the driver got out, leaving the vehicle running. John watched in confusion as they walked off down the drive, where they got picked up by another SUV. The red house had some barns at the bottom of the hill, out of sight behind some trees, where they kept grounds keeping supplies. He assumed that's where Mycroft's people went as the other vehicle drove off.

"John, do stop dawdling, hop in." Sherlock ordered through the open door, his detective in the driver's seat. John rolled his eyes, but didn't argue. He hopped in the front passenger seat, and buckled up just as Sherlock powered the big vehicle away from his parent's house.

"Sherl', where are we going?"

"Nowhere. I need to tell you something, and Mycroft can't hear it. No one can know what I'm about to tell you." Sherlock drove with impeccable control, maneuvering the large vehicle down the hill, and out onto the main roads.

John got a nervous sensation deep in his gut, and kept tossing Sherlock glances as the detective drove. He had no idea what Sherlock had found out there in the woods, but whatever it was, it was serious. Sherlock looked like he was cut from marble, his pale face hard as stone. John bit his lip, and wondered again where they were going.

Sherlock took a sharp turn, the SUV dipping as Sherlock took the vehicle down an unplowed road, trees hanging low, pinging off the roof. John braced himself on the dash, and held his breath, fearing they might get stuck. They abruptly came out from under the trees, the light bright in his eyes.

Sherlock stopped the SUV, turning it off. The engine made little noises as it cooled in the frigid temperatures, and John peered out past the windshield. Sherlock had taken them to the river, the water frozen but for a fast moving strip in the center. They were in a small picnic area, a place with a tiny beach that must see lots of traffic in the summer.

John turned to Sherlock, but his detective wasn't looking at him. He had his hands under his chin, in that steeple pose he used when thinking hard. John zipped his coat up tighter, and waited.

He had no idea how long they sat there, waiting on Sherlock to organize his thoughts. So when he finally spoke, John wasn't expecting it. He jumped, and was so glad his head was feeling better than it had in days, otherwise he'd be feeling sick to his stomach right now.

"How do you feel about Mary, John? Do you still love her?" Sherlock asked him, his heavenly eyes burning with something John couldn't name.

John was shocked by the suddenness of the question, and wondered why Sherlock was asking. Sherlock wasn't jealous, surely? He had acted jealous before, back in the days John dated women and they weren't lovers, but that was more because they pulled his attention away from Sherlock and the cases. Sherlock had never been jealous of Mary. Not once, not even after she got pregnant. Even when John needed Sherlock's help to keep her safe, Sherlock remained free of jealousy.

"I… Sherlock, you know I love you…"

"No, John. Don't tell me what you think I want to hear, tell me the truth. I'm cashing in my fortune cookie question now." Sherlock said, referring to the bet they'd made on the afternoon John ended up confessing his love. Sherlock had won the bet, but let John ask his question that time instead, holding his in reserve. "As per the conditions, you must tell me the whole truth, holding nothing back. Do you love Mary?"

John snapped his mouth shut, mildly annoyed and still wondering where this was coming from, and what it had to do with the secret they couldn't tell Mycroft. He sighed, and looked down at his hands, doing his best to formulate an honest answer. He dug deep, refusing to be less than truthful with the man who was the center of his existence.

John looked up, and met Sherlock's eyes, those impossible orbs of wondrous intelligence, even wisdom. He dragged in a deep breath, and did his utmost to be honest.

"I do love her, yes. I fell in love with her like I was in a dream, a safe place away from the pain and grief. You were dead, Sherlock. Dead." John couldn't look away, for once glad that Sherlock could remain emotionally distanced. That he could listen objectively. If he reacted negatively to his words, John wouldn't be able to say them. "She was there for me. I can't tell you how dark it got, in my head, in my heart. I wasn't John Watson anymore after you fell, after you…died. I was dead, too."

He sat back, and leaned his head on the seat. He sighed, and reigned in his chaotic emotions.

"I thought about suicide, about drinking myself to death. I thought about leaving London, and going off to who knows where and just ending it, leaving my body where no one would find me. I couldn't work up the desire, though." John felt bad for telling Sherlock that. He had thought them past this all, but if Sherlock needed to hear this, he would say it. Sherlock was pale, and John saw a tremor in the long fingers as they clutched at each other. "I went through my days existing. I would sleep, dreamlessly. I would wake up, no ambition. I would eat, not taste a thing. I would get dressed, not feeling the clothes on my back, or the shoes on my feet. I would go to work, and do my job. I would go home, sit in my chair for hours, then go to bed. And do it all over again."

"There was a brief moment in my life without you that I tried to pull myself out of the darkness. I got a new job, moved out of the flat. I tried, but it sucked me back in. I was lost. I was drowning, choking, and I wasn't me anymore. I barely lived, until she woke me up."

John looked away from Sherlock, down to the floor, not seeing anything. He put a hand to his forehead, feeling sick and tired. He would keep going, tell Sherlock everything.

"Looking back at it now, I feel sick, I feel ashamed; I feel like I used her. Why? Because she reminded me of you. The same ability to rationalize, compartmentalize emotions and actions. I just thought she was a good nurse, the best can do that. Do their jobs without their emotions destroying them in a moment of crisis. Feel later, think in the now. I saw you in her."

Sherlock shifted in his seat, and John peeked at him, thinking he may have gone too far. But it was making him feel different, saying this out loud. Making him feel lighter.

"There was a bit of you in the way she moved, the way she would see a room in its entirety when she walked in, see the people, where they were. You would do the same." John wiped a hand over his face, and realized he was sweating, even in the cooling air of the vehicle. "God, now I feel wretched. I fell in love with your shadow, the shadow of you I saw in Mary. The dangerous edge, the cold rationale, the passion for life. Saying this out loud, I know I loved her, but I would never love her as much as I loved you. I was yours, you owned my loyalty and my life, from the moment you spoke in the lab. I fell in love with you the instant we met. And I never stopped, Sherlock. I loved you so much, that when you died, I loved the next best thing to loving you. I let her save me, because I needed you. The tiny shred of you I saw in her pulled me out of the darkness."

"You know the rest. So yes, when you ask me if I love her. I used to love her because she reminded me of you, then I loved her for herself. Then you came back, and showed me that no matter how much I may love her, I could never love her as much as I do you." John reached out, and grabbed Sherlock's hand in his, the strong fingers cold, and he chaffed them, warming them. Sherlock smiled at him, a small quirk of his lips, his eyes suspiciously bright. "I love her now not as a partner, or lover, or former anything. I love her as the mother of my child, a woman who is carrying a tiny, dearly loved piece of me under her heart. And I will always love her for that. But I'm not in love with her, Sherlock. I'm in love with you."

Sherlock dipped his head, hiding his face from John. He lifted a hand, touching the smooth plane of Sherlock's face, the perfect skin flushed, as if Sherlock were blushing. Sherlock never blushed. John didn't even know if he could.

"I…." Sherlock's deep was especially raspy, and his chin trembled in John's hand. He blinked rapidly, and the stone cold man from earlier was gone, to be replaced by a young man, one lost in the reeds when it came to love and emotions, even now. "You shatter me, every time."

John smiled, absurdly touched that his confession could stir Sherlock's heart to such a degree. If he could get this reaction from Sherlock, he would confess his love every morning and night. There was some benefit to grandiose speeches if he could shatter the logical armor of the great detective.

"Hey now, Sherl'. Don't cry. C'mere. I love you." John whispered, and he leaned forward, kissing his lover, Sherlock gasping as John took his mouth. He tugged his detective forward, and he came, long arms holding him around the waist. Sherlock tasted like peppermint and candy, tea and love. If love could have a taste, it was the taste of his lips.

John kissed Sherlock, forgetting where they were, why there were there. He forgot that it was freezing, and the only warmth the man he held. He forgot everything, everything but Sherlock. His detective gripped his face, tilting his head, kissing him back with a fervor that left him stunned. Sherlock devoured him, and John felt the world tilt under him as Sherlock picked him up.

He gave a very unmanly squeak of alarm as Sherlock threw them both onto the wide bench seat of the SUV. Mycroft's vehicles were larger inside than the average housewife edition, to accommodate a dozen men and their gear. The seat Sherlock threw him on was long and wide, more than enough room for Sherlock to lay on top of him, fully stretched out.

"How's your head?" Sherlock whispered to him, nuzzling at his neck.

"Head's great. Don't stop," John panted, eyes wide, a laugh bubbling up in his chest. He realized they were very much alone, and that he had Sherlock all to himself. No family or friends around, no need to be quiet. John snaked out a leg, and wrapped it around Sherlock's hip, yanking his lover down to him, as he ran his hands under Sherlock's coat, his jacket.

Sherlock lifted a brow at him, and his face got this cocky, smug look to it. He thrust his hips against John, rubbing and grinding, making John pant with lust. There was a growling, stalking, hungering sensation rumbling in his core, a conflagration of love and lust, and John snapped. It had been too long since he last had his lover, and he wasn't waiting any longer. Sherlock was his, and here with him. Alone.

John twisted under Sherlock, using his leg to flip the detective. Sherlock was under him now, and John straddled his hips, slipping his hands under Sherlock's jacket, popping the buttons as he went.

Sherlock tried to reach for him, but John slapped his hands back, and found what he wanted. He pulled out the handcuffs the detective always carried in his coat, from one of the numerous pockets hidden so well in the lining. He snapped one cuff, then the other, over the younger man's wrists, securing him to the armrest of the seat.

"John?" Sherlock asked, a questioning look on his gorgeous face. John reached up, and shrugged out of his coat, pulling off his jumper. He was burning up, and he had never been so turned on in his whole life. The sight of Sherlock handcuffed, the feel of him under him, was making him very, very hard.

"God, Sherlock. You are fucking amazing." John put a hand out, and slowly, lovingly, tugged Sherlock's shirt out of his waistband, revealing the pale, smooth skin underneath. He ran his fingers over Sherlock's stomach, watching as the skin jumped, his muscles contracting at the light touch.

Sherlock's eyes were so bright they were almost glowing. John felt a sharp jab of lust run through his groin as he watched Sherlock tug his lower lip between his white teeth, biting, with a quick flash of pink tongue. John unbuttoned his shirt, peeling back both sides of it, Sherlock's naked torso open to his gaze and the cooling air. He ran a hand down his lover's chest, over the lean muscles, down to his belt and waistband. John didn't say a word, just undid his belt, and slowly, indecently, and devilishly unzipped his fly. John grinned, and slipped his hand inside Sherlock's trousers, into his silk underwear, seeking, wanting. He cupped the hot length of his detective, his lover already hard, jumping in his palm. John stroked, and Sherlock's eyes drifted shut. He lifted his hips, trying to thrust his cock in John's hand.

"Easy, patience. I've got you all alone, Sherlock. You're mine. Mine, do you hear me?" John squeezed, gently, but firmly, making the detective whimper, his head thrashing on the seat. John did it again, and Sherlock whimpered again, biting his lip, hips writhing under the weight of his doctor. "Do you hear me, lover?"

"Yes! Oh God, John! Fuck…." His detective gasped out, doing his best to pull out of the handcuffs. "I'm yours, I've always been yours…"

John pulled his hand away, and sat up, undoing his own belt, his trousers. Sherlock watched him, face flushed, the tip of his tongue wetting his lower lip. His glorious eyes were narrowed to a faint glimmer, tracking every move his doctor made. John briefly got up, and kicked off his boots, yanking off his trousers. He reached for Sherlock, and stripped him naked from the waist down. His long coat and jacket hung open, draping to the floor, bunching up between his long form and the seatback. John reached out over the driver's seat, and turned the SUV on, aiming the air vents back.

He turned back to catch Sherlock trying to slip the handcuffs off, and John reached out, trailing a finger down the detective's long torso, down past his navel, and into the finely trimmed hair of his groin. He distracted his detective from trying to get free, and Sherlock gripped the cuffs as John drove him mad. His fingers explored the delicious skin around his hard cock, the lean muscles of his inner thighs, the strong hips, the tapered waist, and the sleek curve of his firm buttocks. He touched everywhere but where Sherlock wanted him to, ignoring the pleading whimpers of his lover, the younger man writhing and twisting on the seat.

John watched, absorbed in the sight, as he took Sherlock apart, piece by piece, stroke by stroke. Sherlock was crying out, eyes shut, biting at his lower lip, curls messed by the seat and his movements. John drove Sherlock to the edge, and finally took his hard length in hand, the hot, silky soft skin nearly burning his hands. He was hard, so hard John's mouth watered, and he leaned down. He slid his lips over the head of his detective's cock, sucking on the broad tip. Sherlock sobbed, and thrust his hips up, begging John to take him deeper. John obliged, and cupped his balls, tugging gently on them as they tightened in his hands.

He swallowed Sherlock whole, the thick heat in his mouth impressive and delicious. John moaned as he tasted Sherlock's essence leaking from the full cock, and he sucked as hard as he could. Sherlock shouted, loudly, and bucked under him as John sucked and stroked, up and down his glistening length.

John was thrown back as Sherlock erupted from the seat, his hands freed and the handcuffs swinging from one wrist. He caught John by surprise, and John was trapped under his detective, both men on the floor of the SUV. John gasped as Sherlock took his mouth, his long clever fingers gripping his shoulders, pressing him to the floor.

"You're mine, John." Sherlock pulled back, and growled in his ear, his whole body rubbing on John's, making the doctor moan. John gave up thinking, planning, he gave in to the lust rolling in his core. His hands gripped and rubbed, touching every inch of his lover. Sherlock still had his coat on, and it hung down over them, blocking out most of the sunlight streaming through the windows.

They kissed so deeply, so roughly, that someone's tooth cut John's lip, and he tasted the faintest hint of blood. John growled, and ripped at Sherlock's clothing, pushing it away from the lean man above him, and he scooted down, licking and nipping down his lover's neck, his shoulders, his chest. Sherlock ripped at his boxers, and John felt the cold air hit his groin, quickly followed by hands.

There was little room on the floor, trapped between the bench seat and the front seats. Sherlock straddled John, one hand propping him up, his long coat hanging over them. John stared, so fascinated by what he was watching, seeing, that he forgot how to breathe.

Sherlock lowered his groin down to John's, his long cock rubbing and sliding over the doctor's. John moaned, finding the ability to breathe again, gasping as he watched the detective's fingers grip his own cock, and slide it along his. John grinned in appreciation as he saw Sherlock solve their problem with lacking room, with one sure grip and long fingers. Sherlock managed to grip them both in one hand, his fingers wrapped securely around both cocks.

"You are a fucking genius," he gasped to the man above him, and Sherlock tore his gaze from his hand long enough to give John the sexiest wink he'd ever seen. Sherlock stroked them both at once, holding himself above John with one arm, his knees straddling the older man's hips.

John thrust up the tiniest amount, and Sherlock increased his pace, his hand working them both furiously. John stared, and Sherlock leaned over him farther, pressing as closely as he could without hindering his movements. John put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, supporting his detective above him. Sherlock stroked them both, alternating pace and angle, and John was losing it, so completely in thrall to Sherlock he was willing to do anything to keep Sherlock from stopping.

John moaned, feeling a warm rush of liquid pleasure begin pulling in from his extremities, his fingers and toes tingling. His heels dragged on the floor, his knees coming up behind Sherlock, and his fingers dug into his lover's shoulders. Sherlock watched his face, his heavenly eyes brilliant and blinding in their intensity. This hadn't happened often; that they could watch each other closely as they came. Sherlock observed every inch of him as John writhed under his skilled fingers, the intoxicating heat of Sherlock's arousal massaging over his within his lover's hand, driving him faster to orgasm.

John felt his spine arch, his hips lift up, as Sherlock stroked them both, his hand firm but gentle, providing just enough pressure and rhythm to get John to the edge of climax.

"I ….. love…..you….." John panted softly, and he couldn't stop himself from coming. He erupted in Sherlock's hand, and he was crying, whimpering, as Sherlock let his eyes drift shut, his face go blank as his own orgasm shot from him. Wet, hot, liquid sex spun out from them both, over Sherlock's hand, John's stomach, some of it landing on the detective's abdomen. Sherlock groaned, and his hand stilled, and both men jerked against each other.

Sherlock slowly let go, the motion making them both jump. His hand slapped down to the floor, and John found the strength to keep Sherlock propped up. The detective was nearly comatose, so high on his orgasm that he was limp, arms useless in holding himself. John shook his head, clearing out the cobwebs, and figured neither of them would appreciate the mess if Sherlock collapsed on him.

John lifted his hips off the floor, and pushed with his hands at the same time, and miraculously managed to get Sherlock rolled onto the bench seat beside them.

John fell back to the floor, and with one shaking hand, dug through the detective's coat pockets, looking for a handkerchief. He found one, and wiped himself off thoroughly before gingerly getting to his knees, and doing the same for his lover. Sherlock shivered as he cleaned him off, and John placed a tender kiss on his stomach.

Sherlock gave him a very satisfied smile, eyes heavy and blinking slowly. John got up, and contemplated his next move, before shrugging, and stretching out on top of Sherlock. His love's arms rose, and tugged him down, and John sighed happily. He rested on Sherlock's chest, the pale man accepting his weight easily. He was stronger than he looked. John smiled at him, and propped his chin on his arms, crossing them on his lover's chest. He was able to relax, and watch Sherlock's face at the same time. The air vents of the SUV were aimed right at them on the seat, and John was quite comfortable.

There was that adorable curl again, and John couldn't resist. He tugged at it, and smiled when the curl sprang back, nearly perfect amongst the riot of his love's hair. Sherlock gave him that sweet, loving smile that John knew no one had ever seen before, other than him. Sherlock was rarely sweet and agreeable, and only with him, when they were totally alone. Sherlock dropped all walls with him, and let him in, let John see him as he truly was, and John treasured the trust Sherlock gave him in those moments.

John yawned, and snuggled his head under Sherlock's chin, the warmth of the hot air blowing on them and the man under him making him very relaxed and sleepy. Sherlock was humming, his fingers tracing over his shoulders, his back. John smiled, and tried his best not to fall asleep.

"So what's the …." he yawned again, and blinked, eyes heavy, "the secret we can't tell Mycroft?"

Sherlock stopped humming, the deep sound stilling under John's ear. He frowned, missing the smooth timbre of his lover's voice. He had yet to hear Sherlock sing, but he was certain his voice would be well worth the listen. If only he could catch him doing it, but Sherlock never did more than hum when John was around.

John lifted his head, his chin on Sherlock's muscular chest. He met his lover's gaze, and waited. Sherlock had tensed, but his fingers still traced over his skin. Pleasant tingles ran over him in the wake of his talented hands.

"I went to where the sniper was, where the shot was made from. Before I got to the tree, the nameless soldier appeared. He was there, with his boss, as he calls her, and one other person. He stalled me long enough for them to get away in a small private helicopter that was hidden on the other side of the hill."

"Oh, wow. Okay. I'm assuming there's more, that doesn't seem dreadful enough to hide from Mycroft."

"Yes, there's more. I believe the two people who were there were women. Tread patterns, foot size, and movements that I have seen before…. In a small London park a couple of months ago, when Mary avoided the hit squad sent for her by the CIA."

John did his best to breathe. He tried, and dragged in a deep breath, his heart racing. He did his best to stay calm, he really did.

_Mary, what is going on? _

"Keep going." He gasped out, and Sherlock put a hand along his face, as if to anchor him, to keep him from flying apart.

"There are only two people who have been on British soil in the last year who could have made such a perfect shot, and spared Mycroft so effortlessly. One of them is Mary, and the other, Jaime Moriarty. Considering that it was a sniper that saved us at Leinster Gardens, and then in the catacombs, I think it was Jaime Moriarty. She is alive, and protecting Mary, by protecting us."

John didn't know what to think, or do, so he let Sherlock hold him, anchor him, his arms holding him to the earth, always his center of gravity when the universe spun out of control.

"I confronted the nameless soldier, asked him directly if he served Jaime Moriarty. He claimed she was dead, but told me that all her men had served her out of love. His demeanor changed swiftly, from open and unguarded, to closed off and defensive. He lied to me without truly lying, and he told me the answer to my question without directly doing so."

Sherlock paused, and wiped a thumb lovingly across John's cheek, his hand warm and soothing.

"John, I have no proof beyond some odd phrasing, the signs of two women under a tree, and the suspicion that we were not the people really being protected by our mystery friends. Think about it… if we were dead, or incapacitated, then Mycroft or his successor would hand over Mary to the CIA, or the next shadow agency that came along wanting her. If Mycroft was dead, then MI6 would not hesitate to use Mary as currency. The CIA were being picked off, with a brutal and ruthless efficiency, but MI6 wasn't touched. That could be explained by a mysterious ally repaying a debt, but it's far more likely to be Moriarty protecting Mary because she is under Mycroft's protection."

"My final piece of evidence is where that last shot landed on the Vicar. It came nearly a minute after the second shot, as if the sniper had to think about making it. It landed in a very personal spot, wholly unnecessary, as he died with the first shot. The second was to make a point that the Vicar was worth killing. The third, that one was meant as insult added to injury. As if to say, 'how dare you'. And a part of me suspects that the sniper was targeting me, in that brief minute. Who else other than Jaime Moriarty would be a sniper, and want to kill me? She has been in that position before, the temptation must have been great. There is no reason for such a long time between shots, really. The first and second were less than three seconds apart. Indecision was moving the sniper, until something, or someone, settled the choice."

"And the only person who we know who has swayed Jaime Moriarty is Mary."

Sherlock stopped speaking, his face blank of emotion, but his eyes were a tumultuous riot of starry colors. John rested on his lover, and accepted the comfort Sherlock gave him. He breathed past the maelstrom brewing in his heart, and let his emotions settle. Primary was worry, and fear. Jaime Moriarty alive was a scary thought, as scary as being told Jim Moriarty was resurrected. That was a nightmare he couldn't contemplate. Yet the scariest thought of all was Mary dead, or stolen away by a shadow agency, his child along with her. That was a fear that kept him up at night.

"John?"

"I'm alright, love. I'm surprisingly alright with that."

"Wait… what? Really?" He could understand Sherlock's disbelief at that statement; he was having trouble realizing that he was okay with this theory as well.

"Yeah, I'm okay with it, sorta. If Jaime is alive, and keeping Mary safe, then I'll stay quiet. She needs to be in prison, obviously, but I'm pragmatic enough to realize that it wasn't us, it wasn't Mycroft, it wasn't anyone else in the whole world who has protected Mary, and us, better that Jaime Moriarty the last few days. She did what we couldn't." John sighed, and kissed Sherlock's hand, the one caressing his face. "If it means Mary is safe, if it means my child is safe, then I'll swallow my indignation, my desire to see that madwoman in chains. I'll do anything. Anything to protect the mother of my child."

"This was far easier than I thought it was going to be. You still surprise me, John Watson."

"Can't have you get bored."

John rested on Sherlock, and let his lover caress him, hands exploring the lines of his back and shoulders. John had a thought, and smiled.

"That's why you asked me if I still loved Mary. To see if I would keep quiet about Moriarty. Not because you were jealous, but because you were worried I didn't care about her enough to keep it a secret."

"Yes, spot on John."

"You prat. Putting me through that wretched confession. Can't do anything the easy way, can you?"

"The easy way is boring."

John laughed, listening to the deep rumble of his lover's answering laugh under his ear.

"We should probably get back to your parent's place."

"We can stay here, too."

"It's Christmas, Sherlock. That's rude, even for you."

"Well, since all I want for Christmas is you, I'm okay with staying here."

"You would be." John couldn't stop his laughter, the smile on Sherlock's face enough to vanquish his worries. Sherlock hugged him, and John snuggled back down.

They could get dressed in a few more minutes. It was Christmas, after all. What was a better present than time spent with the one you loved?

* * *

><p><strong>Christmas Eve, 4:00 PM<strong>

Jaime stepped through the front door of her safe house, a small brick and wooden affair older than the secluded street it sat upon. This was one of her brother's former safe houses, and some of his belongings were still in the closet of the room he had used last. He usually kept clients here in between placements if someone had to go into hiding, but he had used it while going through his final game with Holmes.

Mary entered after her, and Jaime let her look. The blonde assassin took in the sparse furniture, the table laden with gear and weapons, the walls free from pictures and clutter. Clay's room was just off the foyer, the bed spread pristine and perfectly tucked in, corners tight.

Jaime dropped her jacket on the table, and walked down the hall, heading for her room. There was a note tacked to the door, from the rest of her men, letting her know that the Vicar's remaining men had been taken into custody by MI6, and that there was no perceived active threat remaining from the Americans. Jaime opened the door, and pulled out her mobile, and she texted her men, telling them to disappear for the remainder of the week. She smiled, amused by the fact she was giving her trained killers holiday leave.

She pulled off her jacket, smelling pine and sulfur, from the shooting that morning. Her clothes were dirty from resting on the ground with the rifle, but the dirt was nothing. She stripped down, her jacket and vest hitting the floor, her under armor tank top and thin skintight pants the only thing she kept on as she kicked off her boots and socks. Her knife shone from her thigh, and Jaime ran a hand over it in an unconscious gesture of reassurance.

Jaime pretended she didn't see Mary standing in the doorway of her room, taking in the lack of personal items, the white plaster walls, the large bed. She had weapons on the nightstand, and a rifle hanging from the hook on the back of the bathroom door.

"Will you go back to Holmes' townhouse?" She asked, running her fingers over the comforter on her bed, unwilling to look at Mary. She didn't know why, but she couldn't bear to see Mary's expression.

"Depends on Mycroft, I suppose. And Sherlock. He almost caught us before we took off, he will see that we were there. Maybe not us specifically, but two women for certain." Mary stepped in over the threshold, and looked back over her shoulder, towards the front of the small house. Jaime saw her look, and wondered why. "He's not slow, he'll have most of this put together before the presents are opened."

Jaime stopped peering at Mary out of the corner of her eye when she slowly shut the bedroom door, clicking the lock. Her eyes flicked to hers, and Jaime felt pinned to the floor by what she saw. Mary leaned back on the door, and Jaime found herself in the rare position of being dumbstruck. She never had trouble figuring out her next move, what to do in the grand scheme of things. Yet Mary throwing that lock ruined her ability to think, instantly.

Mary stepped away from the door, and Jaime froze, eyes wide when the older woman silently glided across the floor, coming to her side. Small, delicate, deadly fingers swam across the comforter, touching hers lightly, so gently. Jaime exhaled, breath ragged. She felt different, a day of feeling different pushing her off center. Her skin was shivering, but she was warm, her cheeks flushing. She could feel her heart beating hard in her ears, her pulse rushing.

She was so near Jaime felt the heat rising from her skin, her eyes a fathomless blue that reminded her of jewels her brother stole over a decade ago. Mary was small, but every inch of her was muscle, trim and sleek. Jaime found herself lifting a hand, and letting her fingertips trace over the fine delicate features of Mary's face. She couldn't stop the smile that came to her lips when Mary leaned her face into her hand.

Jaime took the smallest step, and cautiously lifted her other hand. She framed Mary's face, the creamy planes flawless and smooth under her fingers. Mary tipped her chip up, her lips so pink and inviting Jaime stopped thinking completely. Surer than a sharp blade in the deepest dark, Jaime leaned in, and kissed those tempting lips. Soft, sweet, feather light.

Mary sighed, and Jaime felt her breath tease her lips, shivers of heat flooding her senses. She stepped closer, as close as she could get, and did the bravest thing she had ever done in her whole life. She let her hands drift down, the silky smooth skin of Mary's neck, her slim and muscled shoulders, down to her sides. Jaime tilted her head the slightest amount, and slowly, hesitantly deepened the kiss. Mary sighed again, the soft sound full of delight, and Jaime slid her hands up Mary's sides, to just under her breasts. She wanted to go farther, but she seemed to be having trouble with her hands.

Jaime was rewarded for her bravery, as Mary lifted her arms, not once breaking the kiss, to rope them about Jaime's neck. Mary opened her lips, and the sweet taste of her tongue touching hers sent a wave of heat running down her spine.

She was at a loss, having never, in her whole life, willfully made love to anyone. Teasing and beguiling a mark for a job was something else entirely. They always died before things got too far. Jaime knew intellectually what she should do, but her body refused to move.

Mary seemed to sense her fears, the blockage in her willpower. Mary pulled back, lips clinging for a heartbeat. Jaime sighed, doing her best to ignore the red heat washing across her face. She was so far beyond her experience that she literally couldn't make herself move past the point she was at in that moment. She closed her eyes, and ducked her head, hands shaking where they clutched at Mary.

"Shhh. Sweetheart, shh. No pressure. Nothing but love. Let me love you. Nothing more, just love." Her whisper fluttered the hair on Jaime's temple, and she fought to relax. Mary's hands rubbed her shoulders, and kisses fell on her cheek and jawline, teasing, soothing.

"I can't move…. What's wrong with me?" She hadn't meant to ask, but it came out anyway, and she damned the shaky, vulnerable sound of her voice.

_I am Jaime Moriarty. I do not fear anything. I am not afraid… why am I afraid?_

"Death may know what to do. Sybil Moran may know what to do. But the damaged girl, Jaime Moriarty? She has no idea, and it scares her silly. This is fear, sweetheart." Mary's words struck home, and Jaime pressed her face to Mary's shoulder, so hard the fabric of her jumper hurt.

"I don't get scared."

"Okay. I'll pretend this is something else," Mary whispered in her ear, and Jaime lifted her head enough to glare. She caught Mary's eye, and the look she gave her made Jaime crack up. She giggled, the tension fleeing as fast as it came.

Jaime smiled at Mary, and she sighed, pulling back. She figured this relationship thing wouldn't be as easy as killing CIA trained killers. She wasn't used to things being hard. Jaime snagged one of Mary's hands, and jumped onto the bed, pulling Mary after her. She laughed as Jaime pulled her down on the bed, bouncing. Jaime pulled her love to her chest, the smaller woman curling up along her side, her head under her chin. She caught a hint of Mary's perfume, sweet and innocent and so deceptively pure.

The evening was falling in fast, the moon full in the London sky. She could see the heavens through the bedroom windows, the stars obscured by the smog of the city. The moon shone through, the frigid air clear enough for the moon to sit brilliantly on its perch on the roof of the house next door.

Jaime stared out the window, wondering what was bothering her, why she felt so different. The warmth of the woman she held was real, more substantial that anything she had felt in years. She couldn't recall the last time she had been hugged. She knew that other than marks and targets, the last honest hug she had gotten was from James. And it wasn't recent, years before his death on the roof of St. Bart's. So long ago she had trouble recalling the context, the words he spoke.

_What did he say that day? What did he say…?_

_I don't hear him. I don't hear my brother._

She drew in a breath, and held it, her arm tightening around Mary. She knew what was wrong. She knew what was wrong with her, why she felt so differently.

"Jaime, sweetheart? What's wrong?" Mary asked her, tilting her head back to see her face.

"I know what's wrong with me…."

"What do you mean?" Mary rubbed a hand over her shoulder, and Jaime gave Mary a look full of fear, and wonder. She was scared, she knew that now. For the first time in almost twenty years, she was scared. She couldn't hear him, he was gone. Truly gone now. She was alone.

"I don't hear James," she whispered, the cold moonlight chasing over her face, blinding her enough she had to look away from the window, and met Mary's concerned gaze.

"What do you mean?" Mary sat up a little, and rubbed a finger over her chin, across her lips. Jaime caught her hand, and pressed a kiss to her palm.

"I can't hear my brother's voice anymore. It's quiet now, in my head. He's gone," she whispered to the woman looking at her with concern, a trace of worry on her lovely face. "James is gone."

* * *

><p><strong>Christmas Eve, 6:00 PM<strong>

Violet tugged at the hem of her dress, wishing she'd thought things through better and brought something along that wasn't so …so….sexy. She didn't think sexy was the best appearance to be having at Christmas dinner with family and friends. She didn't think so at least, this was the first Christmas she hadn't spent on a beach in an indecently tiny bikini since she was a teenager.

_Hell, the last Christmas I actually had was the year before Mom died. I was on my own by the next one. She went quickly._

Violet stared at her reflection in the mirror, seeing nothing but a girl stuck in a situation she had no idea how to survive. She saw her paling skin, the bright eyes that always got all the attention, her long legs and sleek arms. She saw the hint of her mother in her smile, but the rest of her was always him, her mysterious, and dead, father. She had yet to see a picture of him, and she looked. She had discretely tore through the whole house, looking for a picture of her father. She had found dozens of pictures of an adorable Sherlock and an awkward Mycroft, but no Sherrinford.

Violet spun from the mirror, hearing a knock at the door. She ran her hands down her thighs, and swallowed, wondering who it was. She hadn't seen Anthea since they came back to the house earlier, the MI6 operative withdrawn and sad, unwilling to talk after her blurted apology.

"Come in," she called softly, and tensed as the door opened. She smiled in relief, and a little regret, when she saw it was John.

He was wearing a fine dark grey suit, and she smiled, not used to seeing him out of his jumpers. She grinned as he took her in from head to toe. She knew she was a sight, and the expression on his face confirmed her too sexy fears.

"Too much?" She gestured to the mid-thigh length, black silk dress she wore, a thin band of silver sequins running diagonal across the front from her right shoulder, down to her left hip, where a sweep of tassels in black beads brushed across her bare thighs as she moved. Her shoulders were bare, but for her right shoulder and arm, which was covered in a skintight black sleeve that ended at her wrist, a silver band of sequins adorning a finger strap on her middle finger. Her left arm and shoulder were bare as well, and her raven hair was partially up, the jagged edges sweeping the naked skin of her shoulders as she turned her head. Silver stars glittered on her fingers, her ears, and from a necklace that nestled just above her breasts, the low slung bust line perhaps too low for even a dress up dinner. Black high heels completed the look, and she shifted nervously on her feet.

She blushed as he took a second, and then a third look. The appreciation on his face was very honest, and so absolutely non-creepy that she didn't know how to handle the regard. She wasn't used to nice men thinking she looked nice.

"John? Too much? I can change…" She gestured to her bags on the bed, clothing strewn everywhere.

"No! Oh wow… no, don't change. Definitely don't change." He had this dazed look on his face, and he swallowed. "You look like the night sky, full of stars."

He was flustered, and she cracked up laughing as he put a finger to his collar and tugged on it, as if it was suddenly too tight. She walked over to him, heels clipping on the wood floors, and gave him a hug, kissing his cheek in thanks. She pulled back, and wiped the lipstick from his face with a thumb.

He blushed, and she smiled, her worries disappearing as he offered his arm. She took it, and he led her from her room, heading down the hall to the stairs.

"Sherlock downstairs already?"

"Yeah, he disappeared once Mycroft and Greg finished cleaning up the bathroom upstairs. He said he'd meet us downstairs before dinner."

"So who else is coming? Grandma said something about neighbors?"

"Mrs. Holmes mentioned the neighbors were coming, I forget their names, and their two sons. They apparently grew up with Sherlock and Mycroft, we'll see how well this dinner goes." John sounded nervous, and she tossed him a look.

"How bad can it be? I mean they all know each other right? Maybe they were all friends as kids?"

John tossed her a look full of incredulity, and she sighed, realizing just how much of that statement was wishful thinking. Sherlock and Mycroft didn't have friends. Well, not until recent years anyway.

"Yeah, this is gonna be fucking awkward, isn't it?" She whispered to John, and he led her down the stairs, the sound of people talking and chattering away coming up to meet them.

John led her to the rear of the big old house, to the dining room that hadn't seen use in years. It was maintained beautifully though, same as the rest of the house, and Violet sucked in a breath at the Old World splendor. The table was long, and would easily seat them all, with room to spare.

Sir William looked the epitome of the English country squire, in a dark black suit and fine white shirt, a gold pin of some kind on his lapel. He stood at the head of the table, talking to an older couple, presumably the neighbors. He nodded to her and John as they came in, and the two neighbors gave her distant, polite smiles. She figured they were being typically British, and smiled back as politely as she could manage.

The whole room was lit up by chandeliers, and wall lamps fashioned to look like candles along the walls. The walls were a deep, rich, shiny mahogany, and the floors were polished and immaculate. Candles graced the long table, poinsettias in golden pots blooming among the platters and trays on the table. Her grandmother had gone all out, and the smells rising from the covered buffet style dishes made her mouth water.

"Oh, dear! You look divine!" Marion called out from the other side of the table, where she had been speaking to Greg and two young men she didn't know. Her grandmother wore a fine dark green dress, her white hair done up in an elegant sweep atop her head. She was lovely, and her eyes were suspiciously bright as she came over to the two of them.

Heads turned in their direction, and Violet clung to John's arm, doing her best not to wrinkle his suit. Mycroft was entering behind them, and they moved out of the way as her grandmother complimented John on his suit, and she oohed and aahhed over Violet's outfit. Glad she had some familial approval for her dress, Violet relaxed.

She was relaxed right up until she saw Anthea, who entered the room right behind Mycroft. The MI6 operative was dressed in a dark blue Grecian style dress, an elegant affair that hugged every curve and fell to the floor in a whisper of silk. Her hair was swept back from one temple with a diamond clip, which sparkled in the dark tresses.

Anthea smiled briefly, but didn't speak, following behind Mycroft as he worked his way over to Greg. Mycroft was in a suit, as always, but this one was a cut above his usual style, a dark blue suit that brought the red out in his hair and made him look every inch the British Government.

"Where's Sherlock?" Violet whispered to John as her grandmother wandered over to her husband. She was looking, but couldn't see her youngest uncle anywhere. She wanted to see Sherlock dressed up, she needed the distraction, anything to take her attention off her ex girlfriend.

"I dunno… I don't see him. He should be down here." John whispered back, and he was craning his neck to see around people in the long room. Violet was looking too, and she stopped in shock when she finally saw him. He was standing at the opposite doorway, the one that led to the kitchen, and she had never seen him so damn good.

"John!" She whispered loudly, and turned the doctor by his shoulders to see his detective.

Sherlock stood at the door, hands behind his back, cold eyes flitting over everyone present, his expression reserved. His suit was what got her attention, and his hair. Usually he wore his suits casually, no ties, shirt open a few buttons, hair wild and crazy. This time he was in a suit so black it shone under the lights, a shirt so white it was as if he fashioned it from a snowbank. He wore a tie, a black silk one with a silver pin in it, flashing from the darkness of the fabric. She felt John stiffen up at her side, and she knew he was just as floored as she by Sherlock's hair.

He had tamed it, totally. The curls were swept back from both temples, a fine wave of dark hair that was brushed back to show his high forehead. His eyes were brighter, and glittered like diamonds. Without his hair hiding his eyes, they were beyond remarkable. Violet blinked, floored by the sight of her mad uncle looking like James Bond. An unbelievably sexy James Bond.

John moved slowly from her side, and she let him go. She watched, tears pricking at her eyes, and she was glad she hadn't bothered with mascara. John walked to his lover as if in a daze, under a spell. Sherlock watched him approach, his face closed off and icy cold. She knew better though; she knew her uncle loved the doctor, but something about the company they kept made Sherlock hide his emotions.

John made it to his side, and Sherlock moved at last. He lifted a hand, and ran his thumb over John's cheek, a caress subtle and blatant all at once. John caught his hand, and while she couldn't hear what he said to his detective, she blushed anyway. The love and appreciation pouring off of the doctor was intense.

She stood alone at the door, and watched her family move about the room, all of them dressed like they were in a James Bond movie, but with far more taste and less cleavage.

"You must be Violet. Mum mentioned there was a relative from America visiting."

She didn't know the voice, and turned to the owner. It was one of the young men who had been talking to Greg and her grandmother. He was about thirty, plain brown hair, boring features, her height, and very rude eyes. His smile was polite, and his manner agreeable, but his eyes were straying and staying far too long on places he was appreciating. He was obvious, one of those men who thought themselves subtle when ogling women.

She plastered a fake smile on her face, and shook his hand. She poured on the American accent, just to make him feel special before she ripped his face off.

"Yes, Violet Hunter, from the States. Here for Christmas."

"Michael Carstairs, next door neighbor. Grew up here in the area with Mike and Sherlie." He held her hand a touch too long, and she tugged, pulling her hand back with more force than necessary. She wiped her palm on her thigh, and wished she had a drink.

"Sherlie and Mike? Oh, you mean _Mycroft _and _Sherlock."_ She stressed her uncle's names, making it obvious that she called them by their proper names.

"Oh yeah, those two. The crazies," he took a sip from his drink, by the scent obviously a whiskey. She looked past him, and wondered if it was socially acceptable to get drunk on Christmas before dinner. She'd like to try if this conversation didn't end.

"Crazies? …. You mean my uncles."

He sputtered, and blinked at her in surprise. He wiped at his mouth with a hand, and she grimaced as he wiped his hand off on his dinner jacket. He had to be drunk.

"Mike and Sherlie are your uncles? I was thinking you might be a long lost cousin or something, or Mrs. Holmes had a kid past her expiration date. You're way too hot to be their niece. Mike finally figure out what to do with a woman? No, wait, I bet Sherlie is your daddy. You look like a much hotter version of him, with legs and a face that works and not as queer. I bet he grew you in a lab."

Violet saw red. For the first time in her life she understood the phrase, and saw red. She stiffened up, nails biting into her palms, and she skewered him with a look that should have had him pissing on the carpet like a bad puppy. He must be drunk, as he just smiled at his own rude comments like they were the funniest shit he'd ever heard.

Violet heard her grandmother laugh from across the room, and reined in her temper. She would not embarrass her grandparents, not tonight, no matter how badly she wanted to kick this asshole in the balls and bitchslap him out of the house.

She relaxed, and stepped in close to him, a sexy smile on her lips, and whispered in his ear.

"I'll let you in on a secret….. All three of us know exactly how to treat a woman, and what say to one. Which is more than I can say for you. You're nothing but a rude inbred country hick."

Violet pulled back, and patted him on the face a few times, like an elderly aunt would a preteen at family reunions. It looked sweet, but the last pat was more of a slap, and she stalked off around him. She left him sputtering in his drink, trying to figure out exactly what she'd said to him and why he felt insulted.

She did her best to keep the smile on her face, and went straight to her grandparents. Sir William saw her coming, and she graciously accepted the hand he held out to her. His large thin hand engulfed hers, the fingers still strong despite his frail outer appearance. He pulled her in close and whispered in her ear.

"You look lovely, child." Sir William kissed her temple, and surprised her with his next words. "Don't mind the Carstairs boy, he can't handle his liquor. All men are fools when drunk."

She gave him a tiny smile, wondering if he was mad at her. He obviously saw enough to understand exactly what happened. He gave her a smile, and she giggled when he winked at her, lightning fast.

_So that's where we get the winking from!_

Her grandmother picked up a crystal glass, and tapped it lightly with a silver knife. Violet grinned, having never seen someone do that outside of a movie. The twinkling noise got everyone's attention, and her elegant grandmother smiled graciously at the assembled bodies in the dining room.

"Since we are all here, I'd like to welcome everyone to our home. Whether you be family, friends, or neighbors. Everyone's place has your name beside the plate, food's ready and covered on the table. Please enjoy."

Violet eyed the table, and sighed in relief when she saw that she was between Sherlock and Mycroft, Greg and John on either side of their respective partners. She didn't think she'd be able to survive dinner if she had to sit next to the drunk asshole.

Her grandmother had very cleverly separated all the main courses among multiple dishes, with buffet burners underneath keeping everything warm. That way, no one had to pass anything around farther than the next seat, and everything was within reach.

Violet dug in, passing dishes around between her uncles, and she glared at Sherlock when he just sat there, staring at the food. She glared so hard, he sent her a nervous look, and slowly took the dish she held out to him. There was no way she was letting him get away with not eating the dinner his poor mother spent all day cooking. She huffed when he put a spoonful of potatoes on his plate, and passed the dish to John. She went back to her plate, and saw Mycroft smirking at his brother over her head. She sent him a look, one brow raised, and he quickly dropped his eyes to his own food.

She sat back in her chair, shoulders shaking, silently laughing at her uncles and their behavior.

She saw Greg grinning from the other side of Mycroft, and she winked at him.

Dinner passed easily, with conversation flowing. She was pleased and a little disappointed that Sherlock wasn't outrageous, but she saw Sir William sending his youngest several looks throughout the meal, and every time Sherlock would bite his lip and sit back, pretending to drink something. She had the feeling that this was how they survived the holidays, Sir William the only one who could rein his sons in during mealtime.

Violet ignored the glares from across the table, the poinsettias not obscuring the Carstairs son's ominous looks. He must have figured out what she said, or at least, understood it wasn't complimentary. She wasn't worried though. She was sitting between her uncles, and they loved nothing better than tearing down idiots. He must know that as well, because she kept seeing his eyes jump between Mycroft and Sherlock, as if checking to see from where the first attack might be coming from.

Dessert was eventually served, and Violet got her first taste of her grandmother's cookies. She shook her head, and corrected herself. Biscuits. They were called biscuits here. There were also pies, and cakes, and some kind of pudding thing that had raisins in it and bread like stuff. She saw John dig in with enthusiasm, and tried it. She groaned in delight, and ate a whole bowl full. She eyed the table in disbelief, and wondered when her grandmother found the time to bake all of the food.

She knew it was acceptable to get up from the table at last when Sir William stood, and opened the doors to the adjacent sitting room. Company slowly drifted, drinks in hand, in smaller groups. Sherlock stuck to the wall with John, the doctor chatting with her grandmother. There was a Christmas tree in this room, the only one in the large house, and it lit up the space.

Violet stood next to the tree, admiring the antique decorations, the lights winking from among the branches. She had finally scoured a real drink, a whiskey in hand, no ice. She sipped, enjoying the smooth burn on her tongue, the heat in her stomach. Her grandfather had exceptional taste in whiskey.

"Violet?" It was a soft query, said hesitantly.

Violet looked up to see Anthea a couple feet away, her dark blue dress cast with an otherworldly glow from the tree lights. She wore a nervous expression, and she held a glass of wine, both hands wrapped around the delicate stem.

"Hey, 'Thea. Nice dinner, huh?" That was the best she could do, considering the emotional non-fight they had earlier.

"It was lovely. Your grandmother is an exceptional cook."

"Yeah she is….." Her voice trailed off, and Violet was suddenly tired, so tired that standing here holding a glass was too much effort.

"Violet, are you okay? I know we didn't talk, we should have. I'm sorry." Anthea stepped closer, and Violet gripped her glass tighter, pulling in her shoulders, her head turned down and away from Thea.

Violet saw Mycroft across the room, her uncle leaning down to say something to the smiling DI from Scotland Yard. The love between the two men was so obvious it shone as brightly as the tree she stood beside. She stared, and she realized after a moment that Mycroft was looking at her in return. She did her best to school her expression to one of happiness, but it fell flat. Her uncle's eyes darted from her face, to the woman who stood anxiously at her shoulder. Violet knew the second he made the connection between her unhappiness, and the cause.

Violet tore her eyes away from her uncle, refusing to see anything he may or may not feel about the whole mess she was stuck in. She wasn't in love with Anthea, at least she didn't think she was. Yet she wasn't prepared to handle being in a relationship with someone who was so blatantly, and pointlessly, in love with one of her family members. Too many types of weird and painful things there, in that tangled web.

Violet gripped her glass, and tossed back the whiskey in one gulp. She gasped, and refused to cry the tears forming on her lashes. Anthea was staring at her, a concerned look on her lovely face. Violet gave her a travesty of a smile and walked away, giving her a barely mumbled 'excuse me'.

She didn't pay attention to where she was going, and she didn't care if anyone saw her leave. She tore out through the far doors of the sitting room, leaving behind the tree and the comfortless lights. Violet was running, taking a door she hadn't been through yet, finding herself in a small study, a golden lamp burning gently on large wooden desk. She must be in her grandfather's study, judging by the sheer number of books gathered on every surface.

She went to the glass doors that must open to the rear garden during the summer months, and rested her hot face on the cool glass. A few stubborn tears escaped, and she swiped at them. They continued to fall anyway, and she gave up trying to stop them. She cried quietly, and she didn't hear the footsteps outside in the hall.

* * *

><p>John sighed, warm in his very comfortable spot snuggled under Sherlock's arm, and did his best to pretend to be paying attention to the conversation between his lover and his mother. He was doing his best, but Violet's exit a minute earlier was bothering him.<p>

He wasn't blind. He knew Anthea loved Mycroft, and that the spymaster loved her back in kind. Yet they had made their choices, and aside from hurting themselves, they were hurting two other hearts as well. John wasn't sure how Gregory was handling it, but the DI was bearing up far better than John would have been in the same situation. Poor Violet was the one suffering the most.

John watched the door she had disappeared through, hoping to see her come back in the room. He instead saw the two Carstairs sons leave the room, doing their best not to be seen doing it, but being obvious in their effort. John stiffened, and Sherlock shot him a look in question. John just shook his head slightly, and eased away from Sherlock. His lover quirked a brow at him, but John motioned for him to stay where he was. He didn't want to embarrass Violet if his suspicion was wrong about their behavior.

He had been to many, many parties while at university, and the way the two neighbors were behaving gave him a vague since of déjà vu. Bad things happened at parties when men snuck off after women, trying not to be seen. No one seemed to have noticed their exit, and John eased out of the room behind them, his suspicions confirmed when he saw them disappear into the depths of the house, the same direction Violet had fled.

* * *

><p>"There she is! I told you Danny, she's a Holmes. Look at that face."<p>

Violet stiffened, rage snapping out from under the heartache at the insolent words and tone from the drunkard. She saw his reflection in the glass doors, his brother next to him, the one she hadn't met yet, both standing in the doorway of the study. She turned to the door, not bothering to hide the tears on her face. Emotions weren't shameful, and they were her tears to cry.

"She must be, with that hair. Think Sherlie found the balls to fuck a girl? She looks just like the youngest freak." The older brother was just as much as asshole as his brother, it seemed. Both men sneered at her, and she shifted on her feet, imaging her spiky high heel lodged deep in the ball sac of the nearest drunken ass. "She can't belong to the dead one, he's been rotting away for years."

"Wow, you two fucktards sure know how to talk to a lady. This attitude get you alotta dates with cops? I bet it does, especially considering how much of my grandfather's whiskey you've tossed back this evening. Barely functional drunks."

"Oh, she's got spine! American too. Snobby bitch." The older brother finished his drink, and he stepped in the room, coming far too close for her comfort. She could smell the alcohol on him, and she regretted leaving the siting room. She should be safe in her family home, and it made her sick that she suddenly wasn't. "Fuck she's hot. Think she fights like Sherlie used too?"

Violet stepped back, trying to dodge the hand that latched onto her upper arm. The older brother yanked her to him, and she was raising her free arm to slap the nasty grin off his face when she heard someone choke from the doorway.

The noise was so unexpected that she turned, the drunk holding her doing the same. The younger Carstairs was coughing, doubled over, holding his stomach. She saw why once she looked to the doorway.

John was standing there, and he was pulling back his fist to land another blow to the back of the head of the first brother, dropping him like a sack of potatoes to the hard floor.

"Let her go, or you're next." The former captain growled, his dark blue eyes black with anger, hands curled into fists.

"No, I don't think so. She reminds me of someone, another freak who used to live here. He used to carve up girls for fun. I want to see if she likes it too." The older brother shook her, making her head snap back on her neck. She slapped him, catching him across the face, her hand stinging, the sound loud in the room.

John yelled something, and the older brother took his attention from her, and back to the doctor.

The man holding her tossed her aside, and her hip landed hard against the edge of the desk. John erupted from where he stood, and her jaw literally dropped open in shock and awe as the doctor demolished a man twice his size. His right hook slammed into the throat of the man who had grabbed her, and as he clutched at his throat, gagging, John swung with his left, and the blow he landed knocked her assailant out cold. He fell like a tree, head smacking the floor with a dull thud.

Four punches, and two unconscious men. Both men larger than John by quite a bit, and he took them out with ease. She blinked at him, her hand rubbing at her sore arm.

"Violet, baby girl, you okay?"

"Whoa, John. That was… holy crap." She tried to smile at him, but the last few hours were too much and she leaned against the desk, her hip and arm sore. Christmas was supposed to be fun and filled with love, and here she was getting accosted by strangers because they didn't like the fact her uncles were people they hated. A few tears leaked out, and she sighed, but it came out more of a sob.

John was at her side, and pulling her to him so fast she never saw him move. She clutched at him, fed up with having a bad day and needing a shoulder to cry on that wanted nothing more than to make sure she was okay. She sniffled, some tears sneaking out despite her best efforts.

She was wrapped up in John's arms, her face pressed to the fine fabric of his suit, when she heard something at the door. She lifted her face the tiniest amount, and saw both her uncles standing over the still very unconscious men on the floor.

Sherlock was shaking, his hands clenching and relaxing over and over in rage. His eyes were so bright that they looked like they were on fire. Mycroft stepped in the room to stand beside his brother, and the icy fury on his face made her think that the two unconscious men were in for some serious trouble.

"Can I make a suggestion before you two decide where you're going to dump the bodies?" She wiped at her cheeks, and dried her eyes with the handkerchief John gave her. "Exile to a geriatric nudist colony in the Deep South? Or an AA dry cruise run by nuns? How about chemical castration or maybe we can strip them naked and throw them out into the snow and let frostbite remove future breeding options?"

All three men looked at her, and Sherlock's lips twitched. Mycroft gave her a glance that she thought might be approval, and John was laughing. She did her best to smile, refusing to be upset any more than she already was.

There was a loud gasp from the doorway, and they all spun. Violet groaned in dismay as she saw her grandmother, her hands pressed to her mouth, eyes wide and focused on the men beaten on the floor.

"Mrs. Holmes, I can explain…." John tried to talk, but he snapped his mouth shut when Marion waved a hand at him. Violet gaped in surprise as her grandmother stepped in the room, tossing a look back down the hallway before softly closing the door.

"Mycroft, open the doors to the garden. Your father shouldn't see this; his heart can't handle the strain. John, Sherlock, each of you pick a fool and drag them out of here before I have to explain to their parents why their spoiled rotten brats are bleeding on my nice floors." Marion waved her hands at her sons, making them move back from the door. "Get them to their parent's car, turn it on, and stick them in there. Sherlock, you break into that car if you have too, just get them out of my house!"

The four of them stared for a heartbeat, stunned. Sherlock was the first to move, nudging Mycroft to the glass doors. Violet sat on the desk, and watched as her grandmother organized the removal of her erstwhile guests.

John and Sherlock dragged a man each out into the snow covered rear garden, Mycroft imperiously directing the entire way. Violet watched as they disappeared into the darkness, hearing laughter from John and Sherlock as the younger Holmes said something snarky to his older brother.

Marion came over to Violet, and hugged her granddaughter. She kissed Violet's cheek, and dabbed at the remaining tears on her face with the handkerchief.

"I'm sorry dear. I thought that animosity long dead. I'm friends with Mr. and Mrs. Carstairs, though after this I'm going to reevaluate the paradigms of that relationship. Good thing John took them out instead of my boys. I don't fancy a drive to a hog farm this time of night to dispose of some bodies."

* * *

><p>The evening went by fairly smooth after the five returned to the sitting room. Greg fumed for a minute or two at missing all the excitement, but one look at Violet's face afterwards made him glad he wasn't there, as he might have killed someone. Mrs. Holmes had said something to Mr. and Mrs. Carstairs, and they had left soon after their conversation. He was curious about what she might have said about their sons' behavior, but he didn't ask.<p>

Greg sat in front of the fire in one of the smaller side rooms, enjoying the crackling heat and the whiskey in hand. Sir William had a fine selection of scotch and whiskey, and he wasn't going to turn down a drink. He hadn't taken a pill yet this evening, waiting to see if he needed one. His side had settled down after his very long hot bath, and the exercise he got during it. He didn't need to take as much pain medicine as usual, and he grinned, thinking all the sex he was having was helping with his recovery better than regular therapy.

"There you are, Gregory." He smiled, looking up to see Mycroft standing over his chair, sexy as hell in that deep blue suit. "I've been looking for you."

"Here I am," he said, waving his glass at Mycroft. "Your dad has got some serious whiskey. Think this bottle is older than me."

Mycroft gave him a tiny smile, and sat in the chair beside him. Greg saw a package in his hands, a slim black box with a gold emblem on the top. The box was shiny, and looked very expensive. Greg stared at it, insanely curious, and Mycroft smiled wider as he saw where the DI's attention had settled.

"What ya got there?"

"Your present." Mycroft held out the box, and Greg was stunned that Mycroft thought to get him a present for Christmas. Sherlock never did presents, and there weren't any under the tree, so he just assumed the Holmes family didn't celebrate Christmas with presents. That hadn't stopped him from getting Mycroft one, but he truly hadn't expected Mycroft to give him a present.

"Oooohhh," he breathed out, and put his glass down to take the black box from his lover.

It was heavier than it looked, and the cover was gilded with the design '**G&M**' in raised gold leaf. He ran his fingers over the lettering, before unsnapping the small bass latch on the front. He lifted the lid, and stared in shocked delight.

Mycroft must have read his mind, or seen him gazing at it adoringly in a weapons catalogue. He had wanted this gun for a while now, but it was out of his price range. Mycroft got him a SIG Sauer P226, two magazines and a neat double row of ammo, all nestled securely in the black velvet lining of the box. Greg put a hand to his mouth, stunned and touched, the other hand tracing the lines of the weapon. His fingers stopped, and he picked up the gun, inspecting it closer. His initials were etched in silver and gold lettering, just below the safety. It was small, and subtle, but done to perfection.

Greg pinched his eyes shut, hand over his mouth, and he sat in his chair, overwhelmed and feeling inadequate all at once. Mycroft had given him something precious. He didn't mean the gun, as much as the thought and consideration that went into its selection. He loved this model, and he hadn't told anyone that, not even Sally. He opened his eyes, and looked at Mycroft, the spymaster fidgeting with the arm of his chair, face impassive. His eyes gave his emotions away though; he was nervous, afraid of how Greg would react.

"How…. How did you know? No, wait, don't tell me how you knew. It'll ruin the moment. Thank you, thank you so much." Greg gently put the box on the coffee table, and got up, putting both hands on the arms of Mycroft's chair. He leaned over the spymaster, and kissed him tenderly, lips clinging, and he tried his best to convey how much he loved this man, and his gift.

Mycroft kissed him back, his long fingers framing his face. Greg blessed the seclusion of this room, and decided to properly thank his lover. He lifted his head just long enough to smile at Mycroft, and unbuttoned his jacket, to make it easier to straddle Mycroft's lap. He settled down, a knee outside either hip, and he took Mycroft's mouth again as the spymaster gripped his waist, hands massaging.

Greg smiled, and maneuvered himself into a snugger position, pushing them both deeper into the soft recesses of the old chair. It was big enough to accommodate some snogging, and Greg wholly intended to thank his lover appropriately. Mycroft would get his own present in the morning.

"I love you," he whispered in Mycroft's ear, making the man under him shiver in response. "I've never loved anyone like I love you."

"I've never loved anyone like I love you, Gregory. I will always love you."

Greg kissed Mycroft, enjoying the pleased noises his kisses were pulling from his lover. Mycroft's hands were wandering everywhere, and Greg groaned in approval when the spymaster's hands cupped his ass, rubbing and caressing with firm strokes.

Greg dimly heard the door shut, but didn't raise his head from kissing his lover. He was in a house full of geniuses, someone probably noticed where this was heading and kindly gave them some privacy.

* * *

><p>John paced the floor of Sherlock's room, waiting for the detective to finish up in the bathroom and come to bed. Everyone had dispersed after the dinner party ended with the Carstairs' sons getting evicted bodily from the premises. He'd enjoyed himself thoroughly, though he felt bad that it came at Violet's expense. She didn't deserve the animosity or the physical assault she'd received from those assholes. John had heard most of their comments, and he regretted not moving fast enough to have spared Violet the whole experience.<p>

He flexed his right hand, figuring he'd have bruised knuckles for certain in the morning. He hadn't hit anyone in a long time. Killed someone, that was more recently for sure, but that was during the whole Moriarty disaster and he'd shot them in self-defense.

_What is Sherlock doing in there? Washing out the gallon of hair gel it took to tame his curls? I'm not complaining, that was impressive as hell and dear God was he hot in that suit and I'm getting hard just thinking about him looking like a super spy from a movie…. Where is he? _

John heard a tread fall just outside the door, and looked up in time to see Sherlock swirl into the room, his blue robe the only thing he had on, hair wet from his shower, the curls dripping as he dried them with a towel. Sherlock danced around him as the door clicked shut, and John's mouth went dry as the detective dropped his robe beside the bed, exposing his bare body to John's appreciative eyes.

He found himself choking on nothing, as Sherlock tousled his hair one last time with the towel, before throwing it carelessly at the nearest desk, where it plopped on the edge before sliding to the floor. Sherlock was naked, wholly and totally, and John got an eyeful of the firmly muscled buttocks of his detective before Sherlock threw himself down on the comforter. He propped himself up on a pillow, before casually lifting up the knee of the leg on the far side from John, exposing his groin and every single delicious inch of his body.

John found himself wondering what he was doing, feet glued to the floor, body frozen as lust howled in the depths of his being, arms and shoulders tensing with the need to jump on that bed. Sherlock gave him a look from beneath his dark lashes, and John swallowed around the knot in his throat. John recognized his detective was _flirting_ with him when Sherlock gave him a very slow, crooked smile that made his stomach clench, his heart jump, and his fingers go numb.

One step, then another, and he was at the side of the bed. He reached up, and slowly began to unbutton his dress shirt. Sherlock's eyes tracked every move of his fingers, that sexy smile never moving from his lips. John couldn't tear his eyes away from his detective, looking so damn appealing laid out like that on the bed. He tore his shirt off, letting it fall to the floor. His hands went to his belt, and John was glad this was all muscle memory, because if he had to do this with any portion of his brain, he'd fail. Most of his blood supply was pooling in his groin, and he was straining hard against his slacks.

He yanked off his belt, and his slacks fell open, his erection damn near freeing itself from his underwear. He shoved his slacks off, the fabric pooling on his feet, and he stepped free, one knee on the mattress, his hands bracing him above Sherlock. He leaned down, and lightly nuzzled at the damp curls of his temple. Sherlock tipped his head back, just a little, and gave John a tiny kiss on his cheek. John shook, once, so hard his arms nearly gave out. He brought his other leg up on the bed, and moved over Sherlock, encouraging him to drop his leg so he could rest his length fully on his lover.

Sherlock was fully aroused, and his hands ghosted up John's sides. Sherlock hugged him tightly to his chest, and John was about to kiss him when Sherlock borrowed his move from earlier in the day, and John found himself flat on his back, Sherlock resting between his thighs. John smiled, and wrapped his legs around Sherlock's hips.

"How's your head?" his detective whispered in his ear, his teeth nibbling on his earlobe, hips rocking on top of him. Each gentle thrust of his hips pushed John down into the mattress, a hard cock pushing on his stomach.

"Better every time you touch me," he whispered back, and he finally got his kiss. Sherlock kissed him, so passionately he lost all ability to breathe, to move, to think. He didn't exist outside of his lover's kiss. He moved his hips, returning the thrusts from above, and Sherlock gave him a breathy little moan.

John slid a hand between them, and palmed his lover, his hard length throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Sherlock thrust himself in his hand, and John stroked him, making Sherlock moan louder.

John didn't want to wait, he wanted Sherlock inside of him, and soon. He thrust up hard with his hips, and with his free hand, yanked his underwear off his hips. Sherlock saw what he was after, and lifted himself up on his arms, and John kicked the offending cloth away. Sherlock dropped his hot, hard body on top of him, and John was panting eagerly as he saw Sherlock reach over his head for the nightstand.

John attacked his exposed neck, sucking on the smooth skin, loving the feeling of his strong neck under his tongue. Sherlock gasped, and thrust against him, cock rubbing over John's stomach, and the doctor wrapped his legs eagerly around his waist.

Sherlock brought the lube down, and moved his hips just enough to apply it to himself, and on one long finger that found John's ass, and slipping inside. John moaned, throwing back his head, hips moving on their own under the ministrations of his lover.

"Sherlock."

"Hhhhmm?" Sherlock kissed him, tongue seeking deeply in his mouth before pulling back, John gasping under him, the detective moving his finger in and out of his ass, stretching him.

"Now." It was an order, and Sherlock grinned.

His finger was suddenly gone and there was an intense pressure on his entrance. Sherlock pushed back on his thighs, angling his hips for better penetration. John cried out as Sherlock slid home, stretching him wide, plunging deep.

John cried out, accepting the hard length inside of him, his legs shaking where they were wrapped tightly around Sherlock's waist. The angle Sherlock had him at left him fully exposed, totally open, and John was loving every hard inch of it all.

Sherlock slipped his arms under and around him, holding him close, eyes only inches apart. John found himself flashing back to the SUV, Sherlock working them both in his hand. John clenched at the memory, and Sherlock's eyes drifted shut for a heartbeat. They opened quickly enough, and he pulled back, slowly, carefully.

John surrendered to the heat burning between them, his hands resting on Sherlock's hips. His detective thrust back in, slow and gentle, going as deeply as he could. John breathed through the stroke, tears pricking on his lashes at the exquisite torture. Again and again Sherlock would pull back, and thrust back in, moving them both with his fierce and intense skill. Sweat gathered, and slicked, heavy sighs and soft moans filling the air.

John couldn't look away from the eyes above him, he couldn't do anything but live in the moment, as Sherlock took them both deeper into the flames. What he was feeling was more than lust, it was more than love. The man in him, above him, around him was his universe, his whole existence. The pleasure in each stroke, each heady breath that ended on a whimper was all that was real in the world.

Sherlock dipped his head, nipping with care at John's lips, teasing him with the promise of a kiss. John sighed, his hands tracing along the lean lines of Sherlock's back, admiring how the muscles flexed under his fingertips with each powerful thrust of his hips. He found it harder and harder to keep his eyes open, and his head fell back over Sherlock's arm. Firm lips latched onto his neck, sucking and licking, sharp tingles running from his neck, through his bones and veins, to meet each deep seated stroke of the hard cock riding him.

John felt a tightening in his core, and Sherlock must have felt it too. He changed the angle of his thrusts, and John arched his back in response to the cock rubbing over his prostate. He cried and whimpered, and he couldn't stop his nails from digging into Sherlock's back. The pressure spinning in his core was making his hips move, his body taking over, trying to hurry them both to climax. Sherlock refused to move faster, his pace sure and slow, driving John mad.

He heard whispering, pleading, a man begging, and it took him a heartbeat to realize that it was him, that he was begging Sherlock to take him over the edge. He forced his eyes open, to see Sherlock watching him, his heavenly eyes burning as brightly as the night sky outside. John was lost, bewitched, and tears flowed from his eyes unchecked as his lover moved the world under him.

John's skin was tingling, slick with sweat, his muscles quivering, and he no longer had control over his hips. He rose to meet each delicious thrust of the man on him, matching tempos perfectly. He finally broke through Sherlock's ironclad control, the detective groaning. He buried his face in John's neck, and his rhythm collapsed. He took John as his doctor was begging him too, fucking hard, crying out with each thrust. John screamed, and he fell off the edge.

He came, his body gripping Sherlock's cock, his cum heating the barest space between them. Sherlock felt him come against his stomach, and the detective froze, seated deep. John groaned, feeling his lover swell inside of him, a second before he erupted. Sherlock came, so hard his whole body seized above him.

John watched Sherlock do the impossible. He lifted his head, and met John's eyes as they came together. What he saw in his eyes, what Sherlock saw in his, as their pleasure mingled and joined, was so profound that he had no words, no thoughts capable of comprehending the moment. So he did all that he could, mouthing 'I love you' to the man over him.

Sherlock kissed him, holding him so close there was no air separating them. Soft kisses, panting breath, relaxing muscles was shared, tender sweet moments that moved John as deeply as the lovemaking just minutes before.

John sighed in regret as Sherlock withdrew from him, the detective rolling onto his back, pulling John with him. He gathered John to his chest, and the doctor curled up on top of him. He was happy, content, so satisfied and depleted it was all he had not to sleep immediately.

The house was quiet, the wind blowing softly over the windows. The last several days had been so chaotic, so stressful, that John felt disoriented taking a moment to relax. Sherlock was running his fingers through his hair, down his neck, to his shoulder, and back up. He shivered, and Sherlock made John laugh when he grabbed the quilt at the bottom of the bed, pulling it up with his toes. John caught it, and covered them both. He was too tired to sneak under the covers, and Sherlock wasn't moving.

Sherlock reached out, and turned off the light beside the bed. The clock under the lamp glowed dimly, but John could see the time clearly enough before his eyes drifted shut. It was 12:04 AM.

"I love you, John. Merry Christmas."

The whisper chased his waking mind down into sleep, and he barely retained the wits to reply.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock. Love you too."


	50. Kingmaker

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**A/N: Special thanks again to silvereyedbitch, she gave me a grand idea with the music scene, and she seriously helped me out, proofing his chapter to within an inch of its life. She rocks!**

**Warning: ANGST, OMG the FEELS.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Fifty<strong>

"_**Kingmaker"**_

**Christmas Eve, 11:30 PM**

Violet let John escort her to her room after the disastrous dinner party. She was sore, and so sick and tired of being beat on, hit, dragged through drama, and hounded because of who she was, or who her father was, that she wanted to explode. John hugged her at the door, his face full of concern and love. He waited until she shut and locked it before walking down the hall to the stairs to where Sherlock waited.

Violet kicked off her heels, and stumbled over to the bed, now empty. Anthea discretely moved herself out earlier in the day, not long after their moment in the pine grove. She took herself to the other guest room on the second floor, and Violet hadn't even seen her leave. The sheets were new, and Violet pushed her bags off the bed, too tired to care that they fell on the floor, making a mess.

She ripped back the covers, and tugged and pulled at her dress until the black cloth gave way, and tore. She threw the pieces to the floor, cursing the entire time. She didn't bother with her hair or jewelry. She would deal with the resultant mess tomorrow. Violet crawled into bed, punching her pillow a few times before burying her face in the downy softness.

She fell asleep faster than she thought she would. No tossing or turning, no fussing. Just sleep. Sleep and the dreams, always the dreams.

Violet knew she was dreaming. It was hard not to know, seeing as how she was walking down the darkened halls of the Seattle hospital in which her mother had spent her last few weeks. The emergency lights glowed balefully from the corners of the hall, barely illuminating the floor and walls. She walked with no purpose, no urgency to find a room or person. On and on she walked, until she knew every inch of the long hall that was her world.

_Wait… where…. This is the hospital…MOM._

A thought kept circling, past her ability to understand it fully, and she shook it away, her sense of lazy wandering fading. A sense of loss, a growing urgency made her walk faster, hands running along the walls, looking for the door that would open to her mom's room….

She saw nothing but hallway, felt the cold floor under her bare feet, the air chilly on her skin. Her hair was longer, like it had been as a child, sweeping past her shoulders in thick shiny waves. She noticed in an offhand fashion that she was shorter than she should be, her head not as high, and she couldn't see as far down the hall as she would like.

"Mom?" she cried out, her voice small and thin. She sniffled, wiping at the tears that spilled from her eyes. She couldn't find her mom's room, and the walls all looked the same.

_Where's her room? Mom! _

Violet ran, her slim legs churning over the white tiles, chasing the dim lights down the long hall. There was no end in sight, just shadows and spots of light spaced evenly into the distance. She ran until her feet hurt, her chest burning from her ragged breaths. Violet tripped in her exhaustion, crashing to her knees, the hard tiles jarring her bones.

Head drooping, long black hair covering her sweaty face, Violet gasped for air, too tired to cry anymore. There was a shuffling sound, like a boot scraping over hard floors, the sound making her freeze. It was child services coming for her again, trying to take her away from her mom. Violet shot to her feet, legs refusing to work properly, and she fell against the white wall, under the baleful glare of an emergency light. Fear tangled in her veins, her hands shaking, mouth dry, heart pounding.

The noise came again, and Violet spun, hand slapped over her mouth, and she backed away, eyes straining to see who or what was making that noise. They were coming for her, coming to take her away, make her leave her mom all alone…..

A heavy weight fell on both her shoulders from behind, long fingers curling over her thin frame. She screamed, harsh and shrill, trying to pull away, but she was yanked back against a hard body. Violet tore and scratched at the hands trying to pull her into the darkness, and she spun, looking up.

"Sherlock?" She stammered out, relief and terror clawing at her mind. "Sherlock, is that you?"

She couldn't see the man's face, not clearly. He was almost in the light, his face and shoulders cast in shadow, his arms and hands illuminated. She could see dark, thick hair, a high forehead, and the chiseled cheekbones so common among the Holmes men.

"No, Violet. Don't you remember me?" His voice was as deep as Sherlock's, but more polished, his words clipped, and so cold she shivered. The fingers holding her shoulders dug in deep, each tip hurting her slender form. She gasped, and tried to pull away. He stepped forward, just enough for the light to touch his face.

"Don't you remember your father, my dear girl?" Sherrinford asked her, his amethyst eyes burning brightly from his aristocratic face.

_Father…. I remember you._

She screamed, over and over, her cries falling on uncaring ears as her father dragged her into the darkness, his hands hard as stone. She screamed until the darkness swallowed her whole, her father whispering her name as he took her deeper. The shadows were suffocating, her body deprived of air, and his whispers were prying into her mind, tearing at her heart.

"Violet! Dear, wake up! Violet!"

She struggled against the hands holding her shoulders, and she screamed so loudly she woke herself up. Violet jerked, her whole body immobile, and her eyes snapped open wide, to see the silhouette of a person above her. Air rushed into her lungs, and her muscles snapped like ropes, her body jerking. She was about to strike out when she saw the long wing of white hair, thick and luxurious, lit by the light from the hall.

"Grandma?"

"Oh, dearest. It's okay. Wake up, it's just a nightmare." Her grandmother gathered her about the shoulders, pulling her up into her embrace, her hands stroking her hair. Violet shook, and curled against the woman holding her, offering love and support. Her touch was gentle, full of love, and she pressed a kiss to her temple.

Violet couldn't stop herself, she broke. Tears came pouring out, from her battered and lonely heart. The hospital in the dream brought back every horrible memory of watching her mother deteriorate from the cancer and the chemo, and the weeks spent dodging child services every time the hospital would call to notify them that there was an unattended minor. Her mother had faded away quietly in the end, having succumbed to a coma a few days before her death.

Violet sobbed, pouring out every repressed sorrow and lonely heart ache of the last several years. She didn't realize how lonely she had been, not until the voids in her life started to be filled by so many essential people. People she loved, now. Where there had been but one, was many, including the woman who held her, her embrace reminiscent of another woman long dead and burned.

That last week before her mother finally passed Violet spent running away from her social worker, again and again, determined to stay with her mother until she breathed her last breath. The government nanny hadn't approved, saying that Violet didn't need to remember her mother passing away in such a manner, wasting away to nothing, barely recognizable as human.

"Can you tell me? Was it the Carstairs boy?" Marion asked softly in her ear, after the bitter spate of tears eased, Violet sniffling loudly.

"No….. It was the hospital… I couldn't find Mom's room…. Then ….."

"Then?" Marion queried, pulling back just enough to see her granddaughter's face in the square of light from the hall. She gently moved a strand of raven hair from her eyes, soft hands framing her face.

"Then… I saw _him_." She gasped out, the last word so hushed it almost didn't reach Marion's ears. Marion paused, and searched her granddaughter's face. Violet trembled, and nodded as she saw the realization on the elder's face.

"You saw your father?" Marion asked, her voice low, with a touch of pain.

"Yes." Violet clutched at her grandmother's arms, needing the support. "I met him once, when I was around two years old. He looked the same."

"You…. He knew about you?" Marion's eyes were glistening, and her expression grew strained.

"He is my first memory." Violet told her, biting her lip, casting her mind back all those years, to the warm summer day she met her father.

"Can….. Will you tell me?" Marion said, and Violet was surprised to see the tears gathering in her grandmother's eyes. She searched the elder woman's face, and saw the need, the desire for Marion to hear something about her long dead son. Violet may fear the memory of her father, and the knowledge of what he had been, but to Marion, he would always be in many ways her firstborn child. Not just a monster, but her son.

She scooted back on the bed, leaning on her pillows. The door was still open, the hallway bright, and giving her enough light to feel safe sharing. She pulled in a deep breath, and looked unseeing across the room, her mind already pulling the memory from the depths. Her dream had stirred it from her subconscious, so she saw it clearly, as vibrantly as if she were living it again.

"I was barely two years old, I think? I'm in a new dress, and Mom was telling me that it was going to get dirty before lunch, or something like that. It was my birthday dress, and I loved wearing it, Mom dressed me in it for days. She put me in the front yard, the sun warm on the grass, and I'm surrounded by toys. I'm sitting, and laughing really hard. I don't know why, I think I was banging two noisemakers together or something. I've always liked loud things."

Marion smiled at her, and Violet barely saw it, her eyes absorbed in watching the memory play out across her mind. It truly was her first memory, so powerful and real she felt the hot sun on her shoulders, heard the buzzing of bees as they danced over the flowers in the garden.

She hadn't thought of this memory in so long, so many years, not since she was very little, and she learned to stop asking her mom about her father. She rarely thought about it, and so thinking about it now felt strange, out of place.

"I think Mom was inside, sweeping out the house, the front door open so she could watch me. I'm banging my toys, laughing. I lost my grip on one, and it goes flying. I got mad, and couldn't reach it. I remember crying, not a lot. I'm having a lackluster hissy fit, trying to get my toy, when I see two legs in front of me."

Violet's breathing hitched, and the memory tilted, as strong hands lifted her in the air.

"A man leaned down, and picked me up. I love it, I start giggling. He holds me up, and spins me, the sun bright and warm, gleaming in his dark hair. I grabbed a good handful, and he holds me to his shoulder, prying my fingers free from his hair. He's playing with my fingers, nibbling on them, making me laugh. I can see his face, and I'm patting his cheeks. He's smiling at me, saying my name. I can hear him laughing too. It's deep, and I can't forget it. I can't stop laughing, and he spins us around and around."

Violet looked up, and her eyes were blank, blind to all but the vision only she saw, and Marion shivered. She looked exactly like Sherlock when he retreated to his mind palace.

"It must have been his laughter that drew Mom back outside. The next thing I know, I hear her screaming. She's screaming a name, and running towards us. She sounds so scared. I can close my eyes, and hear her say 'Ford, stop! Don't, please', again and again. She's begging him to stop….. Why would she say that…..? He was taking me away from the house."

Violet felt the rush of realization, the epiphany that her father had come for her, and was stealing her away from her mother. She saw the world from a new height, the sky blue and littered with fluffy white clouds, the trees rustling in the summer breeze. He smelled like wood and paper, ink and for some reason, metal. Violet felt queasy, recognizing the scent as blood. Her father smelled like blood. She didn't know the smells then, but her grown mind placed the scents easily.

"He was taking me away, he wanted me." She stammered out, doubt shaken under the weight of certainty. "Mom is trying to take me back, begging him to stop. She calls him Ford, not Sherrin. She always called him Ford."

Violet paused, her mind spinning. The rest of the memory is chaotic, colors bright and blurry.

"I don't know what happens after that. I remember Mom crying, holding me tightly, so tight I start to cry. I keep looking out over the front yard, trying to see where he went. Ford is gone, as if he were never there. He made me laugh, I wanted him to come back and play with me. I remember missing him, so much I couldn't stop crying."

"I cried the rest of day, and I looked for him again the next day, as Mom packed us up, driving us away from our home. I learned years later that it was that day, the day he came to visit, that is what made Mom take us away from England. We went to the States, and we never stayed in one place longer than a year. I remember her saying that she changed our names, but I thought it was because she divorced my dad, not because he may have been after us. I was never told what my surname used to be, before she took back her maiden name. She home schooled me when I was little, then she would let me go to public schools once in a while after my begging drove her nuts. It wasn't until I was older that I learned I was born here, and that my dad was a topic better left alone."

Violet stopped talking, blinking away the memories. She felt so tired, and the fear was a distant sensation, easily dismissed. She realized that Marion was quiet, hands clutching one another. Her grandmother was staring at the comforter, her face in shadow.

"Grandma? I'm sorry… I'm sorry if that hurt…. I know you loved him."

"That I did, dear. He was my firstborn. And a monster. He broke my heart many long years ago. Don't be sorry. A part of me isn't surprised that he would try to take you. He always went after what he wanted. From what you say, he may have loved you, too. He never, not once, showed affection to such a degree with anyone as he did with you that day. That hurts me as much as it makes me happy."

Marion looked up at her, and Violet was held captive by the intensity, the sheer gravitas of her grandmother's eyes. Marion's expression was fierce, as if she had an epiphany of frightening power. The resemblance to her youngest son was overwhelming in that moment.

"I have many regrets, about my eldest. I will always feel like I didn't try hard enough, that there was something I could have done more. He wanted the death, the violence, an addiction and obsession, ones that I saw too late to turn aside. Yet there is one thing I will never regret, one thing he did I will never wish away. He made you, child."

Marion reached up, and ran her fingers down the side of Violet's face. Her touch was reassuring, comforting, and Violet blushed as she yawned loudly. Marion laughed, and grabbed the covers, pulling them up. She went from wide awake and coherent to bone tired and mumbling in seconds.

"Lay down, dear, go back to sleep." Marion whispered to her, and Violet did as she asked. She curled up tightly, face in her pillow, and smiled in delight as her grandmother tucked her in. No one had tucked her in since she was a kid. Her mother was the last, before the cancer took her too far for her to care for her child. "I love you."

Marion pressed a kiss to her brow, and walked quietly for the door. Violet fell asleep as the door shut softly, the light fading away as her eyes drifted shut. A dream came swiftly, calm and sweet, penance for the earlier terror. She heard the faint echo of her father's laughter, and the touch of the summer sun on her face.

* * *

><p><strong>2:45 AM, Christmas Day<strong>

Marion closed the door to Violet's room, hand on the doorknob as she thought. Violet's nightmare had woken her from a sound sleep. She heard her granddaughter screaming down the hall, and her heart beat hard in her chest as she ran for her girl. Instinct woke her, the need to protect the young woman she already loved dearly forcing her to run.

Marion sighed, and let go of the handle, mind lost to memories long past. She turned from the door, heading for her room, when she came up short.

Her sons were in the hall, dressed in rapidly donned nightclothes and robes. Sherlock was sitting on the floor, his back to the wall, knees drawn up and his arms wrapped around them. Mycroft stood beside him, arms crossed over his chest, watching her with a wary expression. Sherlock just looked tired, and he was wearing only his pajama bottoms. He looked cold, and half asleep, but his eyes were keen.

"What are you two doing in the hall?" She whispered, glaring at them like she used to when they were young, sneaking desserts from the kitchen in the middle of the night.

"We heard Violet screaming." Sherlock stated plainly, lifting his head from the wall, blinking slowly in exhaustion. "We got here just after you woke her up."

"Ahhhh. And both of you being nosy creatures, stuck around. Sweet of you, too." Marion grinned as Mycroft rolled his eyes. In a very rare moment of affection, her older son reached out a hand, and helped Sherlock to his feet. She felt a twinge in her chest, knowing that they only acted thus because they were so tired, and she the only witness. "Time for bed, my darlings. It's late, and you've Christmas in the morning. I would tuck you both in, but you've men sleeping in your beds."

Mycroft got an uncomfortable look on his face, as if he was embarrassed to have her mention the fact he slept with someone. Sherlock didn't react at all, her youngest unfazed by her allusion to his sex life. Sherlock leaned down, kissing her, and accepted her hug before toddling off down the hall.

Mycroft faced her, and opened his mouth to speak. She stopped him, pressing a finger to his lips. He snapped his mouth shut, his expression both wary and melancholy. She knew what he was about to say, and she refused to hear her son apologize again for slaying her firstborn.

"You never have to say those words to me, my dear. You did the right thing. Better you than some stranger, a policeman who would have bragged and boasted about taking out a serial killer. I know how badly it damaged you, my love. I know. Don't carry anymore guilt than you must, Mycroft. Don't carry my pain in addition to your own."

He looked down at her, and dropped his head. She saw him relax, slowly, one muscle at a time. He carried this guilt with him every day, and she knew the futility of trying to convince him to let it go. He was her son, and she knew him better than anyone else, so she knew he never would. He would carry the guilt and pain of slaying Sherrinford until the day he died, and it broke her heart.

She kissed him on the cheek, a finger tracing the fine lines at the corners of his eyes. He may be getting older, but to her, he would always be her little boy. He was a grown man now, for many long years, and yet she still saw in him the thin tall boy, arms full of books, and questions that never ended. So curious, her middle son.

Mycroft kissed her as well, and he bore up under her hug with a resigned expression, but he returned it all the same. "Mike, make sure Sherlock doesn't fall on the stairs, please. He looks ready to collapse."

"Yes, ma'am. Goodnight."

"Goodnight dearie. I love you." She whispered after him, and she grinned as he got red in the face. He didn't say it back, but she saw how he felt easily enough. He had expressive eyes, and she saw how much he loved her in the quick glance he sent her way. He caught up to his little brother, grabbing his elbow, and helped the half-asleep younger man up the stairs.

Marion walked down the hall to her room, smiling despite the emotional turmoil she'd experienced in the last half hour. All the pain in the world was worth it to have her family under one roof again.

* * *

><p><strong>Christmas Day, Early Morning<strong>

Sherlock gazed at the sleeping face of his doctor, the older man fully relaxed. John was snoring softly, so much so it wasn't really a snore, and more of a breathy whisper of sound. He propped his head up on his arm, rolled to his side, and stared.

John was short, but that didn't stop him, or hamper him in any way. He was strong, compactly muscled, and in such wonderful, tasty ways. Sherlock couldn't stop his body's reaction as his eyes trailed over the firm chest, the flat stomach, and the powerful lean hips of his doctor. The sheet was pulled low, frustratingly short of his groin, denying Sherlock the full view he wanted. He could reach out, and pull it down, but that might wake John, and he was so interesting asleep.

Sherlock went his whole life without understanding the need, the appeal, of a sexual relationship, and now that he had it, he still wondered at the power it held over his body, and his mind. The day he met John, and saw all he thought he needed to see about the doctor, was the turning point of his life. John was everything to him. He literally could not exist without him. The loss of his lover would be the day he lost himself, never to be found again, never to exist as he was now. Sherlock's fate was bound to John's, forever, and he willfully obliged his obsession and need. This was love, in its extremes, and he gave himself over to the addiction, and gratification he got from the relationship.

The morning sun breached the windows, and a stray beam fell over John's eyes. Sherlock held still, and stayed quiet as John stirred in his sleep, turning his face away from the bothersome light. He fell back under sleep's hold, and Sherlock breathed again. John needed to sleep, and Sherlock wanted to watch him some more without the doctor getting all flustered by his focus. One arm was above his head on the pillow, the other along his side, fingers twitching as he dreamed. Sherlock saw the way his skin moved as he breathed, the way his muscles flexed on his flat stomach. It was fascinating. Everything about John fascinated him.

Dawn broke fiercely over the top of the hill, and lit up his childhood room so brightly that the white plaster walls looked to be made of fire. He felt a strong sensation, as if he were a child again, watching this as a little boy.

He fell back on the bed, careful not to wake John. He'd fallen back asleep almost immediately after sneaking back into bed last night, after Violet's nightmare, and John hadn't woken up the entire time he was gone. His doctor was exhausted, and Sherlock wanted him to sleep longer.

His eyes tracked over the ceiling, watching his fledgling mind palace blueprints dance across the ceiling, moving in the faint breeze from the heating vents. He smiled, seeing the childish design, and in his head, moved the pieces around, streamlining the information with grown, more experienced eyes.

Sherlock saw a fluttering in the rafters, and saw a piece loose, a corner broken free from the strings that held the paper to the ceiling. It was a piece of music, one of the first compositions he wrote when he was small. Sherlock turned his head, and looked to the corner where their bags were still stacked. His violin perched in its case, nestled among the luggage. He had a glimmer of an idea, foolish sentiment spurred on by the emotions stirred in him by his lover, and the fact it was Christmas morning, and he was home. He didn't mind that he was home, either. John steadied him, let him navigate the emotional waters of his family with far more ease than if he were here alone.

Sherlock carefully got out of bed, digging out a clean pair of dress slacks and a shirt. He didn't bother with socks or underwear, and grabbed his violin case on his way out of the bedroom. He shut the door, taking one last long look at the slumbering man in his bed. He smiled, and silently shut the door.

First the bathroom, then downstairs. He could see down the long hall to his brother's room, the door shut, and he heard nothing from the bathroom. Lestrade and Mycroft must still be sleeping. He slipped into the bathroom, cleaning up, before running lightly down the stairs, case in hand.

Sherlock strode soundlessly through the great house, heading for the front sitting room, and the tree glowing beside the fireplace. He entered, and knew from the silence that he was the only one up yet this morning. Bear was sound asleep in the kitchen, the big dog snoring louder than John, audible through the open doorway between the two rooms. Sherlock didn't think the big brute would mind, and Sherlock was far enough away from the rooms to guarantee himself some privacy this morning. He hadn't been able to play for himself, just himself, in months.

Sherlock tossed the case onto the seat of his father's armchair, and opened it, pulling free his violin and bow. He checked the strings, fingers running through the motions of tuning out of habit, the ease making it but a few short moments of waiting before he could play.

Sherlock's eyes drifted over the familiar room, the large space filled with the same furniture he'd lounged on as a boy. He smiled as he saw the long scrape on the coffee table from his fencing practice, his mother's scolding loud in his ears as he practiced in the house. That day it had been raining, and Sherlock hadn't wanted to get wet outside. His fifteen year old self was stubborn even then, and he was determined to get his form correct. It had been, right up until Mycroft staggered through the front door, soaking wet and wearing a look Sherlock had never seen before.

It was the same day Mycroft came home, from the shore where he spilled their brother's blood, ending his reign of terror and death. Sherlock lifted his eyes from the coffee table, and turned to his side, where his father's piano rested next to the window. The Grand was well loved, as all things were in this house, and Sherlock felt a twinge of regret, for his father's hands were too fragile now for extended playing. Their father passed his skill down to his son, not to Sherlock, but Mycroft.

Mycroft hadn't played a single note in all the long years since Sherrin fell from the cliffs, Mycroft's knife buried in his murderous heart. Mycroft's music died that fateful day, along with the love he bore for their older brother. To his knowledge, Mycroft never played another note, and Sherlock mourned the loss of his brother's skill, for it had been sublime, matching well his natural born genius.

Sherlock sighed, and banished as best he could the melancholy threatening to override his desire to play. He was happy today, and content. He would treasure the feeling, and not ruin it with miserable, heart wrenching memory.

He lifted the violin to his chin, the bow to the strings, and closed his eyes, leaning a hip on the armrest of the chair. He breathed, relaxing, and opened the door to the music room in his mind palace. He let his fingers play the first song that floated free from the hundreds stored within.

Sherlock smiled wryly at himself, but let the first opening strains of '_What Child is This'_ flow freely. A fitting choice, considering the holiday. Many knew it as '_Greensleeves', _but he preferred to play the Christmas version. He took it slow, playing tenderly, gently. It was a joyous song, with a reverent and melancholy thread to it that suited his mood. The notes sounded as they did years past in the room, echoing off the ancient walls, filling the lower level of the house.

He slipped away from where he was, falling totally into the music, his body moving with the song, his breathing changing, his body nothing but the means by which he created the music. His mind stilled, the ever moving storm of thoughts settling down, tamed in the music. He smiled, a faint hint of enjoyment, and dropped all the ragged emotions, the futile frustrations, his worries and fears. He let it all go, surrendering, finding peace in the music. It filled him up, his ears and mind hearing nothing but the notes.

He played through the first song in its entirety before he noticed the hint of movement in the room. He kept his eyes shut, still withdrawn from the outer world, content halfway between his mind palace and the place he existed in reality. A part of him was aware, but a lesser part, the part of him that mainly dealt with keeping him upright and on his feet. Someone, no make that several people, were entering quietly from the many doors, settling onto the furniture in the room. He played on, and let his fingers choose another song before his mind thought of a better choice.

That lesser part of him heard the kitchen door open and the dog bark as he was let out. He smelled the scents of coffee brewing, food cooking, and whispers of people talking quietly. Someone was sitting at the piano, he could hear them breathing, quietly watching him. No one disturbed him, nor did anyone speak loudly enough to interfere with his music. They let him play, and so he did. He spindled his thoughts away from the room, and went deeper into the music.

He moved effortlessly from the first song to the next, and he didn't care that it was morning, and not the eve anymore. He played '_O Holy Night', _one of his personal favorites, and moved with ease through the song. His fingers were warmed up, his wrist well attuned to playing again, even after his years chasing criminals on the Continent. He hadn't much time to play while away, being dead and all, and even after his Return, he was too busy battling the last Moriarty, and getting injured, to play as often as he wished. He took his chance, glad he could, fulfilling his inner needs with each note released.

It was the thought of Moriarty, her love for her brother, which spurred his next choice of song. It was one he had played many times over the years, only when he was home, and only during Christmas. He had written it himself, as a young boy, determined to put how he felt about his family into song. He hadn't the words to describe how he felt, so he let the music drive his thoughts.

The song he played now was the one he wrote for Sherrin, a melancholy device of confused hope and fearful apprehension. He had meant the song as a gift, one he believed his mathematically minded eldest brother would have appreciated. It was technically superior, precise and yet fluid. There were moments in his life he thought he saw the man past the monster, and he tried his best as a youngster to reach him, to bring his brother out of the shadows. It was with this song he made his last effort, presented to his brother on the final Christmas Sherrinford attended.

He felt the grief, the love, the regret come soaring out of his soul as the first notes broke the cheerful atmosphere, the lesser, watchful part of him aware that the others in the room were more intently focused on him, their few whispers silenced. He felt their attention, drawn as moths to the flame by the sorrow and agony he set free with each raw note.

Sherlock drew on his memories, the sensations that drew him out from the darkness of his scarred heart. The place within him that belonged to his dead brother opened up, and Sherlock poured everything he had into the music. It was a complicated piece, and he had been very ambitious with it as child. It was better suited to have two people play it, another violin or even the piano. There was only one person in the lonely world who knew this song other than him, one who heard it once a year, on this day. He was here, that other soul, yet Sherlock doubted he could be swayed to play. So he continued on, his heart bleeding with each draw of the bow across the strings.

It was with that lesser part of him he heard a strange and foreign sound. The piano nearby was stirring to life, the seat occupant opening the cover over the keys. Sherlock was too caught up in the music to falter, but his body moved slowly, of its own accord, to better hear the notes lifting hesitantly from the keys.

Sherlock slowed, to match the tempo of the one who played beside him. The musician worked slowly, gently, his notes matching Sherlock's, following along as if afraid of his welcome. The music was meant to be shared, and Sherlock relinquished the second part, and took over the main, letting the piano carry the song with him. He felt the relief of letting go, and took over his part, owning the music he crafted in the cool morning air.

Together, piano and violin wove a song meant to reach the heart of darkness, coaxing the light out from beneath the horror that lived within their brother. Hope chased after pain, soothing forgotten wounds and stricken moments of anger. Love, ever enduring, fruitlessly calling out for an answer, the absent echo of sentiment never heard.

Wretched ambition dashed on the ruins of love, hope shattered by the final slash of a sharp blade in the hot summer air, the scent of blood and fury, all of it- all of this Sherlock set free with the song.

Sherrin's Song.

And Mycroft played with him.

Sherlock lifted from the depths of his palace, lesser and greater minds joining again, and Sherlock acknowledged his brother's presence in the music with a small dip of his head towards the piano. His small welcome gave Mycroft the impetus he needed to invest his long dormant skill in the song. Sherlock challenged him, taking the song faster, his notes perfect, daring his brother to respond in kind.

Mycroft answered him, and played, as if the last eighteen years were but a nightmare. His fingers moved with surety, evoking the need present in his part, the need to find solace in love, no matter how uncomfortable, how awkward it may feel for them. It was a query, a call, a cry for love. Sherlock saw it now, fully understanding what he was striving for as a boy, trying to make his broken family work.

The song was ending, the music fading. Mycroft played softly, each touch of the keys conveying his broken heart clearly to all who listened. Sherlock faded, letting Mycroft take over, and he mourned again for his brother. Mycroft bore the guilt, the pain of betrayal, every morning he opened his eyes. Confronted daily by his choice, Mycroft held himself away from the world, under layers of icy disdain. Yet here, in this stolen moment, he asked his little brother for forgiveness.

Sherlock tried to tell him the truth, that he never blamed Mycroft for any of it, and that he accepted with a grateful heart the decision Mycroft made that fateful day by the North Sea. Mycroft had saved them all, even Sherrin. Sherlock loved his remaining brother, and told him the only way he knew how.

Mycroft faltered, a misstep so faint no one but Sherlock could hear. Sherlock felt his heart break, for Mycroft heard his forgiveness, his love in his music, and it reached him. Reached him deeply enough he showed it in the music. Mycroft responded, and Sherlock felt a grin break across his face, joy finding its way for the first time into a song long held down by sadness.

Together, they played, and the atmosphere in the room cheered, brightened. Sherlock still had his eyes shut, and knew without looking that Mycroft was tiring. Whether it was his hands, or his heart, Mycroft could abide no more. Sherlock nodded to him, and let Mycroft fade away completely, with a final flourish of notes.

Sherlock ended the song, and without pause, broke the spell it held over his audience. Sherlock made no acknowledgement to the warm hand that rested on his shoulder for a heartbeat, before walking away. Sherlock continued to play, and he heard Mycroft stop and listen to his mother. She whispered something to him, and Mycroft responded softly. Sherlock turned his attention away, not wishing to intrude on what his mother might say to her son.

Sherlock fell away, faster than before, retreating to his mind palace, the emotional confession of the last several minutes driving him to find something innocuous to play. He chose a song at random, anything to remove himself from the intimacy of his brother's music echoing in his heart.

Sherlock moved from one Christmas song to the next, playing for so long that he began to feel the strain. That portion of his brain not absorbed with playing told him he had been at this for over an hour now, and his fingers and wrists were starting to be bothered by the exercise.

Sherlock felt the morning sun move across his back, the time passing without his notice or care. His back warmed, and it pulled him up from the depths enough for him to become fully aware of the other beings in the room with him. There was a heavy weight on one of his feet, a furry blanket warming his toes. His other leg was being leaned a by a slender body, and he smelled lilacs and heard the humming of computer fans.

He heard breathing close by, and smelled tea and coffee in the room. Someone was eating a muffin, and he smelled his brother's cologne nearby as well. He kept his eyes shut, and decided to finish the song he was in the middle of before acknowledging anyone else. Sherlock did his best to pretend he was alone, letting his face remain blank and empty, nothing but a vessel for his music. He was arrogant enough to enjoy the audience, and put an extra polish on the last few notes before slowly lowering the bow. He sighed, dropping his chin, the violin resting on his thigh.

His arm was tired, and he was irritated by that. He would get back to where he was before his Fall, where he could play for days without rest. Sherlock blinked open his eyes at the applause that suddenly nudged him from the comfortable place he had been playing from.

He looked up, to see everyone, even the dog, watching him keenly. His mother smiled at him from nearby, sitting with his father on the couch. His father gave him a short nod of approval, and Sherlock dipped his head, pleased far more than he should be by that display from his parent.

Mycroft was pretending to read the paper while Lestrade ate breakfast next to him on the loveseat, balancing a small plate on his knee and a cup of coffee in one hand. The DI smiled at him and saluted him with his cup. Sherlock quirked a brow in response, and looked to the others in the room. Violet was at his feet next to the dog, and she gave him a sweet grin when he looked down at her, leaning against his leg, head on his thigh. She looked well rested, even with her nightmares bothering her in the night. He put the bow back in the case, and ran his fingers through her soft hair, not saying a word.

Anthea stood in the doorway from the kitchen, sipping on tea, clicking away quietly on her mobile. Sherlock saw her eyes wander to the girl at his feet, before latching back on to the mobile's screen. Their brief relationship was over, both women handling it with denial and polite distance.

Sherlock lifted his head, and looked for his doctor.

John was leaning against the wall across from him, giving him a full view of Sherlock as he played. John smiled at him, not at all displeased that Sherlock snuck out of bed to play. He gave his detective a small smile, the expression of wonder and love on John's face more precious to him than any song he could play, any case he could solve.

"That was beautiful, Sherlock. Always a treat hearing you play. Thank you dear," his mother said to him, as she got to her feet, coming over to him. He accepted a kiss on the cheek, and tolerated the tussling of his hair too. Her thanks was for more than the music, he knew. She thanked him for drawing Mycroft out, for letting him play. She sighed, her face proud, and wandered off to the kitchen, the dog standing, following her out.

Sherlock gently placed his violin down, propped up in the case, still running his fingers through his niece's hair. She was doing something on her laptop, leaning on his leg, sitting cross legged on the floor at his feet. He peered over her shoulder, and felt his brows rise once he recognized what she was doing. He wondered how his brother would react to what their niece was doing to MI6. She was playing kingmaker, and his brother was in for a surprise.

John wandered over, and helped Violet to her feet when she lifted a hand to the doctor. She gave him a swift hug, her eyes twinkling, before she strode over the Mycroft and Lestrade. John smiled at him, and Sherlock roped an arm around his waist, pulling the smaller man close.

"Morning," he said to his doctor, taking his lips in a kiss. John snuggled up to him, and Sherlock hummed happily. Kissing John was something he could do for hours, days, years.

"Nice concert. Woke to hear you playing, all the way upstairs. Great way to wake up on Christmas morning. I was surprised to see Mycroft play, but I guess I shouldn't be, considering this family." John nibbled on his chin, discretely rubbing a hand up and down his side, caressing a hip. "Come with me, I have something for you."

"Sounds interesting," he murmured, wondering exactly what John could mean. There was plenty John could give him. He let John grab his hand, and lead him from the room, back to the stairs, and up. "And just what might that be, Dr Watson?"

"You'll have to solve it to get it." John said over his shoulder, still leading Sherlock by his hand.

"Oh, a puzzle then?"

"Yes it is."'

Sherlock grinned, wondering what John was playing at, what his doctor was doing. He had a suspicion, but he needed more data to confirm. John took him back to his room, tugging him over the threshold, and maneuvered him to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Close your eyes." John ordered him, hands on his hips. "And hold out your hand."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but did as John wanted, closing his eyes and holding out his right hand, palm up. He heard John walk away, towards their luggage, and stifled a smile as he heard John opening pockets, looking for something. John came back to him, and Sherlock raised a brow at the tiny box John put in his hand. It was smaller than the box containing the cufflinks John had gotten him for Christmas a couple of weeks ago. John didn't know he knew, and yet this was a different gift.

"No peeking. Solve what it is without opening your eyes."

"And do I get a prize for solving this puzzle?"

"Well, you get what's in the box, obviously, but if you guess it correctly, then I'll give you a reward. Something… entertaining."

Sherlock grinned in anticipation. He kept his eyes closed, and examined the tiny box. He shook it gently, and heard nothing. So whatever was inside was secured, or built into the box. It was hard, and finely made, leather casing with metal accents, tiny hinge at the back for opening it…..

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, holding it, as his fingers stilled and his body tingled all over. He held the jeweler's box caged in his hands, like he would a wild bird, afraid to let it fly free. He heard John shuffling on his feet, the doctor nervous, hesitant. Sherlock was shaking, tiny quivers from head to toe. His equilibrium from playing was gone, scattered to the corners of the room. He had nothing to anchor him, but for the man he loved, and it was he who shook him to his foundations.

"John….. A ring?"

"I know you said a while back that you would say yes, if I ever asked. A 'pressure free proposal' is what you called it. You rationalized the sound reasons for marriage, and told me you were happy to live by my side whether we were married or not. But I didn't want to take it for granted, our relationship. I didn't want to take you for granted."

Sherlock slowly cracked his eyes open, to see John standing in front of him, hands tucked in his pockets, head down, toe scuffing at the wooden floors. John looked up at him, and gave him a shy smile. Sherlock couldn't speak, his voice stolen, John having caused one of his rare moments of utter speechlessness.

"I know how you feel about marriage, I really do. I know that you think it's a sign of everything foolish and specious in our culture, our society. But that's not what it means to me. To me, it's a promise, before the whole world, that I am yours, forever. That I gave you my heart, my loyalty, my life, and I will never belong to anyone else. I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

John stepped to him, hands reaching down, opening his fingers gently, and he popped open the little box, leaving it in his palms. Sherlock had yet to look, his eyes latched on John's handsome face. John smiled at him, and with one finger, traced the line of his jaw, before cupping his face tenderly.

"I am asking you to marry me, Sherlock. To be my spouse, my husband, and to willingly accept all the joys and sorrows that come with being married. But I don't want your answer yet."

Sherlock twitched at that, opening his mouth before snapping it shut, giving John a mild glare in confusion. _Why ask now if he didn't want his answer now?_ His look must have said it all, because John leaned down, and kissed him gently. He pulled back, and gave Sherlock a serious look.

"You think so fast, and act as swiftly. This is a choice that I want to see last forever, so please, please, think on it, longer than the nanosecond it would usually take you.

I want you to really think about this. To be sure, certain past all doubt that you want our relationship to go in this direction. I know I do. I've thought long and hard about it, and all I ask is that you give it some time and thought as well. I also want you to know this- that no matter what your answer, I will always love you, and I will never leave you. I'm yours, Sherlock, forever."

Sherlock finally looked down at his hands, to the box nestled on his palms. He froze, seeing the ring, and not seeing it, all at once. He knew instantly that it was an alloy of silver and palladium, a bright and vibrant hue that shone brilliantly in the morning light. He knew in that first second that it would fit him perfectly on his ring finger, not too loose, not too tight, just perfect. He lifted a finger, and touched the smooth metal band. It was warm from the sun, and he liked the finish on it, how it felt on his skin.

The ring was free of adornment, no designs or flourishes. Simple, honest, and beautiful. Like John, and the love he felt for the doctor. Sherlock coughed, and swallowed once.

"Do I have to wait?" he asked, touching the ring again.

"I'd like you to think about it for longer than a few seconds….."

"No. I mean… can I wear it now, or do I have to wait? I don't know the protocol for protracted marriage proposals. Or proposals in general, actually." He was proud his voice didn't crack from nerves and that his words came out in the proper order. Sherlock picked the ring up from its satin bed, and held it up so he could get a closer look. Anything to reclaim his scattered brain cells.

John wrapped a hand around his, holding the ring with him. Sherlock met his eyes, and waited, looking for a hint of what to do. He wanted to say yes now, scream it loudly, but if John wanted him to wait, and waste time thinking about a question he already knew the answer to, then he would. He just needed to know how to handle the next five seconds.

"If you wear it now, think you can handle all the questions from every genius downstairs, and your friends? People will ask, immediately."

"I'll tell them you asked me to marry you, and I want to say yes, but you're being ridiculous and not letting me answer yet."

"Ummm…. Hhmm. On second thought, no wearing that until you've thought things over. At least, not on your finger. Gimme." John took the ring from him, and Sherlock tried not to pout as the doctor strode over to their bags again. John pulled out his toiletry kit, and rooted around in it. Sherlock was confused, right up until he saw John pull out his service tags, the thin pieces of metal clinking against each other on the chain.

John came back to him, and Sherlock saw that he had run the chain through the ring, the band resting with his tags. Sherlock blinked at his doctor in surprise, touched and pleased, when John dropped the chain over his head, the tags and ring resting on his chest.

"There, safe and sound until you've thought things through." John leaned down, and kissed him, this time full of energy and lust, as if the ring was already on his finger and the world knew that Sherlock belonged to John.

Sherlock kissed him back, trying to tell John with every touch and stroke that he was going to say yes. That he wanted to say yes so loudly that the house shook from his affirmation. Yet John asked him to take his time, and think about it…._what was there to think about?_

* * *

><p>Violet stood over her uncle and Greg, both men tilting their heads back in identical fashions, and she smirked, thinking it was cute. Hearing her uncle play was a surprise, and the emotion, the vulnerability he displayed had left her feeling exposed, as raw as the music the two men had played for them.<p>

"Yes, Violet?" Mycroft murmured, trying to read the paper. She held her laptop with one arm, and snatched the paper away. Her uncle glared at her, and Greg snickered.

"I need to talk to you. In front of Greg, or alone. Doesn't matter to me, but it may to you."

Violet watched as both men froze, the mirth fading from Greg's face, and Mycroft started to go glacial. He sighed, and turned to Greg, and Violet wondered why they were acting like someone was dead. She watched as Mycroft looked at Anthea in the doorway, still drinking her liquid breakfast and pretending to text. She felt a rush of alarm, and immediately waved a hand at her uncle and his lover.

"Oh! No, no nono…. Not that awkward conversation, good God that'll ruin Christmas for years. We can have that one tomorrow if you want. Fuck! Scare the crap outta me….Christ Mycroft, you and jumping to the worst conclusion…..Up you go, I have something important to show you." Violet told him, and she walked off, heading out of the sitting room, into the dining room.

The ancient table was cleared, and the chairs all tucked up. She pulled one out, and set her laptop down, sitting in the old chair.

She didn't have long to wait. Mycroft came in the room, Greg trailing curiously behind. She watched as they approached her with trepidation, as if they didn't believe she didn't want to call Mycroft out on dragging Anthea's heart through the street, broken and bleeding for years. Not today. Maybe not ever. It was still a huge maybe.

Greg and Mycroft sat across from her, and she smirked. Mycroft was glaring at her, but not as badly as he usually did. The Iceman was thawing out. His performance earlier with Sherlock made her see just how deeply he did feel, and that what he felt was more painful than her bruised feelings and damaged ego.

"Mycroft."

"Violet?"

"You remember the day I busted out Sherlock from the hospital, and hacked MI6 and the entire British Government?" Violet asked, pulling several thumb drives from her pocket, slapping them on the table. She opened a program, and she secured a direct line through the satellites to MI6.

"Hard to forget. You gave my technicians several panic attacks that day."

"Ha! I bet I did. Good God, your people suck. Anyway, while I was helping Sherlock save the world, I found tons of interesting things in the nether regions of the government networks, the systems, all of it. Things so interesting, I couldn't resist exploring. I didn't bargain on finding so much, so many interesting things…..." Violet stood, and turned her laptop to face the two men. She looked out through the doors, saw no one, and hopped up on the table. Mycroft was shocked, but she ignored him, and scooted over on her butt until she was sitting on the edge, laptop beside her, facing her uncle.

"What do you mean, interesting?"

Violet didn't answer, she just leaned over, and tapped Enter.

Violet didn't watch the screen; she watched his face. She watched as her uncle saw every single leak, virus, worm, malware, backdoor, breach, messy hack, high quality hack, and every single fucking vulnerability in the United Kingdom's cyber infrastructure. She had found them all, and her programs were finding new ones every minute.

Mycroft's face went white; he leaned back in his chair, and sucked in air. He tried to breathe normally, but alternated between choking on nothing and holding his breath. Greg grabbed his shoulder, shaking him slightly.

"I found everything, Mycroft. Absolutely every dirty secret, criminal act, hack and breach. I found the illegal and black ops, the embezzling of government funds, blackmail schemes, murder for hire, espionage, terrorist acts, every single nasty, dirty thing that every single member of your government has ever committed. Everything that they were foolish enough to leave a trail or hint of, I found. I found dozens of traitors, some you may know about, some you may not."

Violet tapped another key, and brought up another list, this one live and actively running within MI6.

"This is live feed, real time information. You currently have several thousand people attempting to hack MI6, with varying degrees of success. Since I have been babysitting MI6, I have stopped several thousand attacks to the network. As of yet, no one has gotten past me into the really important stuff."

Mycroft finally moved, leaning forward, eyes locked on the screen. She smiled grimly as he slowly raised his eyes to hers, and she saw the icy resolve in his eyes. He was not one to take such actions easily, not fail to try and do something.

"How?"

"How do I know all this, or stop it?"

"Both."

Violet paused, and smiled. "I'll not be telling you that, not yet. That's a long and detailed conversation, pretty fucking technical and not very Christmassy. Not to mention Greg looks like he's going to pass out. If I took the time to explain this all, we might lose him."

She tapped the screen, and sighed. Things were about to get dicey. She wondered if he was deserving of this present, or if she were violating her personal hacker code for nothing. Greg was so still, eyes wide, staring at the both of them in shock that she spared him a thread of worry, wondering if he was going to pass out.

"I can give you your Christmas present, though." Violet reached back, and snagged a thumb drive. She came back up, and grabbed Mycroft's limp hand, pressing the drive to his palm. His fingers closed automatically, and she let him look at it.

"And what is on this?"

"I call it the Key to the Kingdom." She smirked at the silly name, loving the wry look he tossed her. "This is the full list of everything I found in the last several weeks. The list goes back fourteen years." She leaned forward, and met his gaze dead on. "I am literally giving you ultimate power. What I just gave you can shape the future, Mycroft. You can use it to save the UK and her allies, or you can become a despot. You thought you were the British Government before; that was a dream compared to the power you now hold in your hand."

She sat back, and watched his face. Primary was disbelief. As if he doubted she knew what she did, that she could find and control all that she had in rooting out the evil so deeply rooted in the fabric of the United Kingdom. She wasn't done yet, either.

She leaned back, and grabbed the remaining drives. She came back, and Mycroft tore his gaze from the drive in his hand to the others she held.

She picked one up, and held it before him.

"This one is a special gift. This one contains the activities and plots committed against the UK by foreign governments and entities, and all hacks and breaches associated with those governments as it applies to their dealings with the UK. And your enemies aren't just on here, Mycroft. Allies are as well. I'm trusting you to use this wisely, and not start WWIII. I'd like to eventually have kids, maybe even get to be old. Like forty or something, before we all die in nuclear war."

Greg looked like he wanted to bolt, to run out of the room with his ears covered. Mycroft was paler, eyes locked on her face. She could almost feel the physical touch of his gaze. She gave him the new drive, and he held it with the first. Mycroft reached out his other hand, and grabbed Greg, holding him firmly in place.

"This is not something I expected from you, Violet. Why give this all to me?" Her uncle asked her, his hands clutching the drive and his lover at the same time. She leaned back on her hands, swinging her feet over the floor.

"Because I want a home. I haven't had one since Mom took us away when I was two years old. I want a family. I know I'm a time bomb, Mycroft. You think having Mary around is difficult to handle? What happens when the wrong people in this government want me, instead of some crazy drug dealer? I want to stay here, be a part of this family, maybe even find someone to love who is free to love me back."

She flinched at that last part, wishing she could take the words back. This wasn't the place or time. Mycroft's mouth thinned out the smallest amount, but he made no other reaction.

"I trust you with this, Mycroft. You can handle what I've given you. It's Pandora's Box, and you won't fuck things up like she did. What you hold is greater than the wealth of knowledge that the evil creeper Magnussen knew. You won't do with it what he did, either. You're one of the good guys. I want to live here, so this rainy island of grumpy people needs to stay safe, for me to be safe too. And I figure that what I'm giving you will grant you the power to keep me safe forever."

She shut up, feet swinging. Greg was watching Mycroft, his mouth partially open in astonishment. Mycroft was staring at the screen, his hand up, clenched around the two drives. The Iceman was back, but his icy exterior wasn't meant for her. He was thinking hard about the people he saw on her lists, many of them people he knew, some for years. He was surrounded by evil, and much of it was new to him. She just shifted the world under his feet, and she couldn't imagine what he must be feeling, thinking.

His eyes snapped up to hers, burning with a fierce glow, one she knew meant ill for the people named on those drives. She wasn't afraid, not one bit. His wrath would burn the world around her, but she need never fear the flames herself.

"Violet. You never needed to do this for me to keep you safe. I'm sorry I was so cold to you, after Sherlock revealed who you were. I couldn't handle who you were, who your father was. I will no longer be a coward, afraid of my pain and guilt in regards to Sherrinford. I will guard you every day of your life. This will make it much easier for me to do so. So thank you."

Mycroft stood, and pulled her off the table, into his arms. She hugged him back, and he squeezed her so tightly she squeaked. He held her for a long moment, and she let him. He finally let her go, her face red, with his getting red to match. He lifted a brow at her, and got a rueful smile on his face.

"If you keep this up, I just might give you a job at MI6."

"Oh God, no. Gainful employment? Yucky." She laughed, and poked him in the side. "No way am I calling you my boss, Spymaster Holmes."

He got a pained expression on his face, and Greg was laughing at his side. Greg stood too, and dropped his head on Mycroft's shoulder, still shaking in laughter. Her uncle held him close with one arm, and Violet smiled. _The Iceman melts for a DI from Scotland Yard._

Violet hopped off the table, and snapped her laptop shut. She still held the last drive, but it wasn't for Mycroft. She had another present to give this morning. She went to walk off, leaving the two men alone, as Mycroft was rubbing his thumb over the DI's hand in a very non-uncle-like way, but she stopped. She turned back to him, and met his eyes one last time.

"Mary has a gift for you as well, once we get back. I texted her this morning. She finished the majority of her mission files. I can find the rest for her if you let me use MI6 to rampage the CIA's files." She grinned at him, and he got a wary look on his face. "Don't worry, if I'm not dodging MI6 and the CIA at once, I can get in and out in half the time, with no one the wiser. Asking this in no way implies I'm working for you…just figure I should ask this once, it being Christmas and all."

Violet grinned hugely as Mycroft nodded absently, distracted by the man he held.

* * *

><p>"She said she'll find the rest on her own, I gave her most of them." Mary told Jaime, turning off the brunette assassin's laptop. The Moriarty network was far more comprehensive than she expected, and Jaime had steered her to all her old mission reports.<p>

Mary had worked all morning since they woke up, tangled in each other's arms. It was the best night's rest she had gotten in months. It was a relief not to hide anything, to be truly herself with someone. Jaime knew her, fully and completely, and without judgment. John couldn't accept some of her darkest secrets, and he never spoke of her past with her. The past didn't matter to Jaime.

"If you fulfill your bargain, will he let you go?" Jaime asked her from the other side of the table, where she was polishing her silver blade, the white cloth shining the surface in great detail. Mary met Jaime's doubtful gaze, and quelled the same doubt she felt in her heart.

"I don't know. He gave me his word." Mary sat back, and she picked up a 9mm from the table, breaking it down piece by piece. She didn't have to ask who Jaime was referring to; Mycroft Holmes was the last hurdle in her way. She smiled ruefully, and realized she was happy. It was to her the perfect way to spend Christmas morning. She was with a loved one, and not pretending. She was free.

"My offer still stands, Mary. Leave them behind. I can have you so well hidden by nightfall that not even the combined might of the entire Holmes' family can find you." Jaime put down the cloth, and spun her blade, her slim fingers handling it with ease. Mary watched the silver edge flash in the morning sun, and sighed. She looked back down to the gun she held, and removed the barrel from the weapon.

She held the piece in her hand, tightening her grip so the sharp edges dug at her skin.

"Jaime. I'm pregnant. I'm going to be a mother. In a few short months, I am going to have another life to care for, to protect. Dirty diapers, no sleep, formula and growing pains. It will be up to me to make sure my baby is safe, happy, healthy, and has the best chance of a good life. You do realize that if I leave with you now, you won't just be getting me, but my baby as well?"

Jaime stared at her, lovely face stilled in thought. She may know intellectually that Mary was pregnant, but she hadn't mentioned it but the once. Mary watched the knowledge sink in, that one day Mary would give birth, and have a baby. A tiny, helpless, wonderful baby, but a baby none the less.

"_Oh."_

"See? You and I can live that life, and live it well. I've lived it before, and if I wasn't pregnant, I would be gone from here in an instant. I would have left weeks ago, Jaime. The night you burned London… if I wasn't pregnant, I would have done my best to leave, and take you with me. I don't know if I would have let you do what you did…. That night…. But I know I wanted you to be safe, and I wanted to stop your pain." Mary stopped, and put the barrel on the table, watching the younger woman watch her back, an unreadable expression on her perfect face. "Can we be fugitives for the rest of our lives, and do that to my baby? She needs her father, too. Somehow I don't see John willingly coming along with us, nor Sherlock letting John go either. My best option is to deliver her safely, and give her to her father…"

Mary choked, and put the back of her hand to her mouth, blinking at the tears that threatened to escape. She didn't want to give her baby up, but John would love her and care for her far better than she could. She would always be hunted, and that was no life for a child.

"John will take care of her, and if I'm lucky, I can see her from time to time. Maybe." Mary picked up the gun, and broke it down further. She reached for a cloth, and started wiping the pieces. "John is the best choice for my baby, and if I leave with you like you want, it'll make the option of giving her to John all that harder. I think. I don't know… if I could give her up once I've held her longer than a few minutes."

Jaime stood, and came around the end of the table, her lithe form elegant in motion. She came to Mary, and held her close. Mary put her face against her side, and Jaime stroked her hair. Mary fought for control, one hand wrapped around her abdomen, and the tiny life growing within.

"If you were to leave with me now, then Sherlock and John would be forced to look for you. Sherlock knows…. Clay texted me this morning. Sherlock knows I live. Yet he hasn't said anything to Mycroft, as no one in MI6 is looking for you. They know you left the townhouse, but Mycroft has made no move to look for you. He may be distracted by his new lover, he may not. You are right though. Leaving as you are now would force them to search for you, and force Sherlock to reveal my existence."

Mary nodded, and Jaime ran her fingers through her hair again.

"Jaime, I'm always going to be hunted. Too many people know I'm not dead, and the CIA is aware of my new identity. Even with Silas dead, there's those four hundred and twenty plus missions that happened, and all the freelance ones. The CIA will eventually tell my enemies that I'm alive, on the off chance they get to me where the CIA couldn't. I'll be running forever."

"No one will ever hurt you, Mary. I swear it." Jaime looked down at her, and reached out for Mary's mobile, the clean one Violet had given her. She opened the menu, and stared at the hacker's number. "I have an idea."

* * *

><p>Greg waited until Violet left them alone before grabbing Mycroft's hand, and guided him to the rear of the dining room, out of sight of the doors.<p>

"Gregory? What….." Mycroft started to ask, before Greg caught his face, kissing him. Greg grinned past the kiss, happy when Mycroft kissed him back as avidly as he could have wished.

He found his back pressed to the wall, one of Mycroft's arms above his head, the other roped around his waist, holding their hips together. Mycroft's hand wandered down to cup his ass, massage his hip, and Greg struggled to remember why he wanted Mycroft alone. He had a present to give him.

"You are hotter than hell, Mycroft Holmes. I didn't know you could play the piano." Greg whispered between kisses, and Mycroft groaned, kissing him so hard he lost the ability to breathe.

Mycroft's hand bumped his pocket, and he felt the tiny gift box in his pants pocket. Mycroft lifted his head, and peered down, a questioning look on his patrician features.

"What's this?" Mycroft asked him, still holding him close, breath whispering in his ear. Greg reached down, and tugged the tiny packet from his pocket.

"It's your present. It's not a SIG Sauer P226, but it's for you. Merry Christmas, Mycroft." Greg held out the tiny gift, the red paper held together by a green ribbon. It was small, small enough to fit easily in the palm of his hand, and lightweight.

"You got me a present?" Mycroft asked, disbelief and a small measure of happiness crafting a vulnerable edge to his words.

"Aye I did. You got me one, which I wasn't expecting. And I didn't buy this as much as get it made for you. Well, you'll see. Open it."

Mycroft gave him a look, and opened the tiny packet carefully, as if he were afraid whatever was inside was going to fly away. Greg nibbled on his lower lip, hoping he hadn't made a bad decision. He was worried how Mycroft would take his gift, if it would go over well or not.

The paper separated to reveal a tiny watch fob, less than two centimeters long. It was made of gold and a darker metal, almost pewter in hue. It was a long, flat oval, the edges gold, and glittered with tiny scalloped designs around the whole length. In the center was the darker metal, and Mycroft ran his fingers over it. Greg waited with baited breath as Mycroft flipped it over, and the spymaster stilled, fingers frozen as he took in the inscription engraved in the darker metal.

"When I got shot, the bullet fragmented on its way out. The surgeons pulled a piece out of my rib. I had Sally take that piece to a jeweler, and asked them to make this. I heard you, Mycroft. I heard you, as I was dying, and you called me back. I love you, and there is nothing I wouldn't do for you. I'll even come back from the dead for you."

"'Anything for You'," Mycroft read softly, the inscription the first words he said after Mycroft called him back from that place in between death and life. "Gregory…"

Greg took the tiny fob from the stunned spymaster, and gently pulled his pocket watch from his vest pocket. The long chain was empty, and Greg picked a link close the watch, so that Mycroft could keep it out of sight if he wished. He attached it, and gave the watch and chain to Mycroft, letting him see how it looked. It was subtle, and the engraving tiny. Someone would have to be way too close to Mycroft to read it, much less see the words. Perfectly subtle enough for a man who piled his trade in secrets and threats, who wouldn't want enemies to know about his love life.

Mycroft put the watch back on his vest, where the tiny fob glittered against the gray fabric. Greg smiled, thinking he might have made the right choice, as Mycroft kept touching it with a finger, as if needing the sensation of the metal under his fingers to tell him it was real. He looked up, and Greg knew his spymaster loved it, just by the glow in his eyes.

"Thank you, Gregory." Mycroft pulled him in, and the kiss they shared was sweet, tender, and slow.

"I figured I ought to give you the tangible present first." He said as they separated, their arms holding each other tightly. Mycroft cocked a brow at him, and waited. Greg grinned, and whispered in Mycroft's ear. "I called my landlord before we left London. I'm not renewing my lease. I'll be moved in to your townhouse by New Year's."

"Gregory Lestrade, I love you." Mycroft whispered back, and the happy smile on his face was one Greg hadn't seen often. Glad he could put it there, he hugged his spymaster, holding him as tightly as he could, the other man doing the same.

Greg felt a vibration, and it took him a moment to realize it was his mobile. Mycroft felt it too, and pulled back enough for Greg to dig his phone out of his pocket. Greg felt his good mood take a hit; it was his parents. Most likely calling because it was Christmas, and he hadn't called.

"Hang on a sec, darling. It's my parents." He told his lover, and Mycroft nodded, a brow raised at the endearment. Greg winked at him, and answered the call, walking away a few feet.

"Hello, Dad." Greg answered, as his mother never called him first on holidays. She called his sister first, his dad always called him, then they switched. "Merry Christmas."

"Greg! Son, Merry Christmas. How's the country air?" his father asked him, his voice sounding forcibly cheerful. They were still upset at him, as he hadn't stayed in London for the holidays, like they wanted him too. He told them he was going out of town with friends, and his partner, and hadn't elaborated.

"Air's cold, Dad. It's winter. How's Mum?" Greg paced a bit as he talked, wondering when he was going to have to hang up. There was something in his father's voice, and it was making him nervous.

"Your mother is just fine. Upset you didn't stay in town for Christmas, of course. She can't figure out why you'd leave with Donovan to go spend time in the woods when all the fun and family is here, but then she's your mother, if you know what I mean."

"Dad…" Greg tried to talk, but he father rolled right over him.

"In fact, she was so upset about it, she called your partner, but Sally said you weren't with her. You said you were spending the holiday with your partner, Gregory."

_Oh shit oh shit….dammit. I didn't want to do this today… shit._

"Dad." Greg gulped, and he looked at Mycroft. There was no going back once he said what he was about to, once he told his father he was involved with a man. This was going to be bad. "I am with my partner, Dad. We're at his family home. Nice people, I like them."

"You got a new partner? What's wrong with Donovan?"

"Dad, Sally isn't my partner. She's my sergeant. I meant my boyfriend. I'm sorry I wasn't clearer when I told you both earlier." Greg swallowed, mobile tight to his ear, and Mycroft held his gaze. He nodded at Greg, as if to tell him that it was okay, everything would be fine. "I'm with my boyfriend, Dad."

He didn't hear anything for a minute. The line was still open. He could hear his dad breathing, faster than was wise for man with a bad ticker. "Dad?"

"BOYFRIEND?"

It was shouted so loudly into the phone that his mobile's speakers couldn't handle it, and Greg yanked it away from his ear. Mycroft heard the shout, even from a few feet away, and his brows disappeared in disbelief at the vitriol rolling out from the mobile. Greg held the mobile away, and tried not to get upset. It was hard, hearing his father use words that he normally wouldn't, calling him horrid things over the line.

He stared at the mobile, at a loss, not knowing what to say or to do. So when Mycroft reached out, and took it from his unresisting hand, Greg let him. The spymaster ended the call mid-tirade, and turned it off. He put the mobile down on the table, and gathered Greg to his chest. Greg was so mad, so upset, that he couldn't do anything but hold Mycroft back, jaw frozen, tongue immobile, ability to speak shocked into silence.

Mycroft held him, hands rubbing over his shoulders, saying nothing. Greg dropped his head to Mycroft's chest, and let his lover soothe him. His heart hurt, and he had never felt such a nasty mix of pain, shame, anger, disappointment and betrayal in his life. He knew his parents' prejudices. Mostly they were his father's, and his mother usually agreed with whatever his father said. His sister had little to do with their parents, but she probably felt the same, as the man she married was a carbon copy of their father.

"The only thing you can do, Greg, is be who you are. Never be ashamed of who you are. They will either love you, or not. Let them decide whether or not they can handle the truth." Mycroft was calm, his hands rubbing him, every gentle glide across his back easing the tension in his body. "I love you."

"I love you too." Greg managed to whisper back, his mind in turmoil. Every second that Mycroft held him quieted the storm, and Greg clutched at him, arms holding Mycroft to him, giving him a safe place in this horrible situation.

* * *

><p>Violet hummed softly to herself as she wandered out of the dining room, running up the stairs to put her laptop away. She was going to give her grandparents their Christmas present, but her grandfather was taking a nap, and Marion asked her to wait until later that evening.<p>

Suddenly her mobile buzzed, and Violet pulled it out of her pocket. It was a text from Mary.

**Go talk to Sherlock alone. Ask him about the pine tree. –MM**

Violet stopped in the hallway, and read the text again in confusion. _Ask Sherlock about a pine tree? Weird. But I'm game…._

Violet turned on her heel, and walked for the stairs. Sherlock and John hadn't come down since John pulled Sherlock out of the sitting room earlier. They were probably upstairs having sex. She had no issue interrupting, and took the steep steps eagerly, her curiosity giving her strides an extra bounce.

Violet knocked loudly on her uncle's door, and laughed as she heard the grumbling on the other side. She heard them get out of bed, and the whispering as they hopefully put on some clothes.

Sherlock cracked open the door, a frigid look on his face, brows raised as he saw her. She held the mobile up, text message open, and watched as his face went from annoyed to astonishment. She yelped as he reached out and snagged her wrist, and pulled her into the room, slamming the door behind her and locking it.

John was sitting on the bed, putting on some socks, equally surprised to have his lover's niece in the room, both men half dressed. She saw the tags and the ring on Sherlock's neck, and giggled in delight, glad to have some non-hacker things to think about.

"Hey John. You ask him already then?" She asked the doctor, and he rolled his eyes.

"I'm not going to ask you how you know, waste of time. Just don't go telling everyone else, okay?"

"No problem. I can keep any secret. Just promise to tell me when you settle on a wedding date. I'm gonna make a killing off of the betting."

"Christ. Both of you are going to be the death of me." John groused under his breath, and he stood up, reaching for a shirt. Thankfully he had on trousers. "So what's with the poorly timed visit?"

"Mary wants me to ask Sherlock about a pine tree." She said casually, and she grinned as John froze in the middle of putting on his shirt, glancing at the brooding detective. "Alone, too. Which means no Mycroft. But I figure that doesn't mean you. Okay Sherlock, tell me all about the pine tree."

Sherlock walked over to John, the look he was giving his lover a very intent one, full of hidden meaning. She felt her curiosity stir, and she really wanted to know what this was about. John sighed, and nodded resignedly. Sherlock sat on the bed, John dropping back down to sit beside him. Sherlock looked at her, and his words bounced around in her head like ping bong balls in a game of beer pong.

"Jaime Moriarty is alive, and she is the sniper who saved Mycroft."

* * *

><p>"Do you want me to do it, Jaime? What if Sherlock and John don't handle this well? Or Violet, for that matter?" Mary asked the younger woman, who was staring at her mobile, an unholy gleam of enjoyment making her dark eyes shine brightly.<p>

"No, I'll do it. Best fun to be had right now. I'll be well behaved, don't worry. Think she's had long enough to ask him?"

"Knowing Violet, she probably ran as fast as she could to ask him. She likes puzzles, same as Sherlock."

"Ahh, the joy of family." Jaime whispered, and Mary hovered as the young assassin dialed Violet Hunter, mobile on Speaker.

* * *

><p>Violet gaped at her uncle, for once so shocked she had nothing to say. She was so flummoxed that she at first didn't notice her cell was ringing, the opening notes of a Bach violin concerto loud in the room. Sherlock cocked a brow at her, and nodded at the phone.<p>

Violet shook her head, and answered it. She saw the caller ID, and tossed it on Speaker.

"Mary?" Violet asked, her voice cracking with excitement. "I'm with Sherlock and John, what's going on? Are you okay?"

There was a brief moment of silence, and Violet's eyes about popped out of her head when the beautiful, airy laugh flew from the speakers, in a voice she had never heard before. John and Sherlock stood, and stared at the mobile like it was live thing, ready to bite them all.

"Mary is just fine, Violet." The woman's voice was astonishingly pretty, alternately between low, seductive, mature tones, and the joyous abandon of a young girl. "And is everyone enjoying their holiday?"

"Holy shit, you're Jaime Moriarty. You're alive! Fuck me." Violet was stunned, and she couldn't decide whether to toss the mobile on the floor and run, or bust out laughing. "This is so cool."

"I am indeed. Is Sherlock available, dear? I would love to talk to him."

Violet looked at her uncle, and gently gave him the phone, glad to let someone else hold it. Her hand felt like it was stuck in a live current, full of tingles and starting to sweat. He sighed, and stared at it musingly.

"I'm here." His voice was like a growl, barely restrained emotion evident. "Speak your piece."

"Oh, Sherlock. Don't be so hostile. I have been saving your life for the last several days."

"I want to talk to Mary." John said, impatient. "I need to know she's okay."

"John. Seriously?" Mary snapped, and John sighed in relief, not caring the mother of his child sounded pissed off. "If the three of you can't play nice, I'm going to get upset. Don't make me get upset, dammit."

Violet just slapped a hand over her mouth, and tried not to giggle. She was the only one having any fun with this highly improbable situation. Well, except for the crazy killer chick. Still, this was so cool she couldn't care about anything else in this moment.

Jaime laughed again, the sound way too appealing to belong to a mass murderer. Violet shuddered, but couldn't stop listening.

"My dearest has spoken, gentlemen. Are you prepared to listen, or do I need to come do this in person?" Jaime asked drily, her voice so full of enjoyment that Violet just gave up, and started laughing silently. She was probably not the best person to have in the room, her idea of what was funny really didn't make people comfortable.

"Go ahead." Sherlock told the crazy woman, and he sat back down on the bed, staring at the phone. Having Jaime Moriarty anywhere near his parents' place was apparently out of the question for the consulting detective.

"I have a proposal. We share a common interest, gentlemen. Keeping Mary safe. You, for the life she carries, John Watson's child." Jaime stated plainly, and John was about to protest, but Sherlock shook his head at him to stay quiet. "I want Mary to stay safe for my own reasons. Mainly, because she is the only person left in this wretched world I love."

Violet sighed, hearing Jaime confirm that she loved Mary making her feel jealous and happy. Even the crazy ones were falling in love and pairing up, and she finds a girl in love with her own uncle. Life was most definitely unfair.

"We can debate the reasons later, but yes, we share the same goal."

"She has made a bargain with Mycroft, that he set her free once she gives him every one of her missions. With Violet's assistance, Mary is nearly done with that task. Mary assures me that Mycroft will honor his word?"

"Yes, my brother will keep his promise."

"Mary also tells me that she bargained for protection, that MI6 protect her until her child is born, after which our dear doctor gets custody of the child. This is to insure she survives to give birth, which is a challenge indeed, as the CIA is going to spread the word that she is alive, and here in London. Mary has many people who want her dead, as you know."

"What? Mary, you're going to leave? What the hell? Why?" John interrupted again, his voice cracking.

"John, please. I can't raise a baby. No matter how badly I want her John, she will never, ever be safe with me once the CIA tells my enemies that I'm alive." Mary sounded so sad, her voice low, as if she were holding back tears. "She'll be safe with you, I know she will."

"Oh, Mary, no…." John whispered, wiping at his face. It was obvious that John hadn't expected Mary to make this decision, and it bothered him a great deal. He wasn't the type of man to want to separate a mother from her baby.

"The good doctor shares my difficulty, it seems." Jaime said, and Violet could hear the satisfaction in her voice. The air was full of something, as if the first crash of thunder was expected, but taking its time happening. "I want Mary to be happy, and she wants her child."

"Get to why you've called, Moriarty." Sherlock demanded, sharp and impatient.

"I shall! I have seen a solution. Rather simple, but it will require the singular skills of your niece. We were going to ask her directly, without involving you, but Mary assured me that Violet would not keep this a secret unless you asked her too." Jaime sounded so smug, a satisfied cat having eaten a canary. "And she would go to you the instant Mary asked, as her loyalties belong to you first, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at Violet, his impossible eyes weighing Moriarty's words. Violet blushed, but nodded once. Her loyalty was to Sherlock first, above all others.

"So, since there is no other way to go about executing my solution other than to involve everyone from the first, I decided to call. Are you ready, little scion?"

"I… sure. Fuck it. I've probably done worse, all before breakfast. Wow me."

"I want you to erase Mary Morstan, Violet. I believe you named your world-ender Clean Slate." Jaime stated plainly, and Violet gasped at the proposal. She didn't question how Jaime knew about it, all it took was one dropped word in the wrong ear a lifetime ago, and the legend spread like wildfire among the criminal elements of the world.

_Why the HELL didn't I think of that already? I'm such an idiot!_

"Holy shit! You're just as smart as your crazy brother! Why the hell didn't I think of that myself?" Violet crowed, tossing her hands up. She could do this! She had done it already!

"My crazy brother once told me that it was the most obvious answers that escaped the notice of genius the longest." Jaime told them softly, her words full of hidden meaning, undertones of grief and sadness.

John raised a brow, and gave Sherlock a lightning fast look. Violet was too busy dancing around to pay much attention to the doctor teasing his detective.

"I thought a Clean Slate program was just in movies and science fiction novels?" Sherlock asked, watching his niece jump around in excitement. "It's impossible to make, or to use?"

"Normally, that would be a yes. But have you wondered why the CIA, Interpol, and every major agency and government in the world wants your niece?" Jaime asked, her voice smug. "I know why, gentlemen. She is the best in the world, yes… and she has done the impossible. There is a legend floating about the nether-realms of the internet that a Clean Slate program was written, fully executable and functional, and by a child prodigy no less. It was those rumors that inspired the foolish tales and stories seen in the movies. The rumors of its creation have been dogging your scion for the last thirteen years."

"Yeah, never brag to a cute girl with a douchebag boyfriend in an internet café when you're bored and lonely. My bad." Violet stopped bouncing, and was glad she still had her laptop. She ran to a nearby desk, and powered her computer back up, her brain already working in overdrive.

"And what about you, Jaime? Do you wish to be erased as well?" Sherlock demanded, his words making it clear he feared the assassin had an ulterior motive. Violet paused, and waited for the answer.

"No, darling Sherlock. I am dead, I have no need for such protection. My remaining power comes from my infamy. And if I were to ask, you would keep Violet from doing it, and keep her from helping Mary as well."

Sherlock growled softly under his breath, frustrated, but he must have believed her, as he just nodded to Violet. She bent back to the keys, and pulled up her restricted files.

"Violet? Care to explain?" John asked from the bed, but she didn't respond to him. She was too focused on what she was doing. "Violet?"

"Shush! I have to work!" Violet snapped out, and she lifted her head, and spoke loudly to the woman on the phone. "Crazy chick, I'll call back when I'm ready for Mary to test the program. It'll be a while, don't expect a call for a few days."

"My thanks. I owe you a favor, little Holmes. And a favor owed by a Moriarty is always paid in full."

The line died out, the call ended. Violet ignored the two men staring at her, her fingers flying over the keyboard so fast her computer was having trouble keeping up. Violet knew, she _knew,_ that she could do this. She could erase Mary from all existence, and even better, make sure she stayed erased, forever. She would be impossible to find once Violet got done.

"Violet?" John asked again. He snapped his mouth shut when she tossed him a gimlet stare, her eyes clearly conveying her need for his silence.

"John, let me work. Once I'm done, Mary doesn't need to hide, she doesn't need to run, and she doesn't need to give up her baby. She can stay in London, and between the two of you, you can raise your bound to be adorable munchkin in mixed family bliss. SHUT UP."

She dived back into the work, ignoring the glares. She had so much work to do, and a goal just out of reach.

"She isn't going to work on it in our bedroom, is she?" John asked Sherlock, and the detective shrugged. "She said days, Sherlock…. In our bedroom."


	51. Vice, Sins and Sacrifice

**Disclaimer: Sherlock isn't mine, but I am his.**

**A/N: I'd like to address some misconceptions out there real quick. I'll be short and sweet, then on to the fun. Please take a minute, and read this note, I appreciate it.**

**1. This story, 'Forever Yours, Sherlock', is actually a trilogy. It's THREE books published under one title, so that the story continuity remains intact. Part One is Book One, Part Two is Book Two, and it'll be the same for Part Three. Chapter 51 is in the middle of Part Two. I mention this so that everyone can stop worrying about me abandoning this fanfiction. I'm not even close to being done, I swear. You all have MONTHS left of me publishing.**

**2. This is my second time writing this story. Every SINGLE MAJOR plot point is already written, waiting for me to transcribe it from my notes into chapter form. I know exactly where I'm going, where I'm taking Sherlock and his friends, and what's going to happen. Trust me kids, I know what I'm doing. I am NOT making any of this up as I go along. The story exists, handwritten and lovingly guarded beside my desk. Please don't beg me to go contrary to the plotline I have mapped. If you all love what I've done so far, I PROMISE that I will not let you down.**

**Trust me. I love Sherlock like I love to breathe. I've got this. I'll see you all through to the end, broken, bleeding, crying, laughing and having so much damn fun we'll all want to do it over again.**

**"Right, back to work."**

**WARNING: SEX. And sadness.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 51<strong>

"_**Vice, Sins and Sacrifice"**_

**Christmas Day, December 25****th**

"No, not in your bedroom. I need to get back to London." Violet stood, having primed the programs she would need to activate her world-ender.

It was the beast slumbering beneath her trackers, the program that could, and would, erase generations of knowledge and information if handled incorrectly, or if coercion was plied against it, or any command issued without her password. Her program of last resort was the Clean Slate, born in a desperate wish from a broken-hearted teen, and grown to eclipse its original purpose in the years since. It had many uses now, first and foremost among its duties the protection of Violet's identity, and her megaservers.

Once Violet turned Clean Slate's focus on Mary Morstan, there was nothing the digital world could do to prevent her erasure. She needed to get back to London, and the station she 'borrowed' from her uncle. The execution would be easier from there.

"I have to go….." Violet snapped her laptop shut, and pulled it under her arm. She was so engrossed in her plans, she didn't see Sherlock jump from the bed, not until he was between her and the door. She stopped abruptly, blinking at him in confusion, her mind overlaid by code and designs, plans to be executed.

"You can't leave like this." Sherlock told her, and she rocked back on her heels, mind begrudgingly crawling out from under her desire to get started.

"What? Why the hell not?"

"Mycroft."

One name was all it took, and Violet groaned, closing her eyes and throwing up her empty hand in exasperation. She snapped her fingers, and opened her eyes, fixing on Sherlock a narrow glare. She pointed at him, and stepped up into his personal space.

"I need to go. I gave Mycroft the Key to the Kingdom, Sherlock. He has everything he needs to rule the world, and I gotta get this done before he's back in London. _I need to leave."_

Sherlock didn't waiver, didn't falter. He met her glare with one of his own, and leaned back on the door.

"No, Violet. You leave now, we all must leave, Mycroft included. Even he won't understand why you want to leave on _Christmas Day,_ and we can't let you go alone. He will follow us, because he can't keep from digging once he gets the scent of something. Act normally as we can, and we leave tomorrow evening instead of two days from now." Sherlock reached out, and touched her cheek, smoothing her frown away with a quick flick of his finger. She sighed, seeing the entreaty in his eyes.

"One day more, Violet. Mary is safe right now. Safer than she ever was with us, strangely enough." John told her, stepping up beside them. "I don't approve of the company she keeps, but the crazy psychopath can keep Mary safe until you can sweep in and save her for real."

Violet grumbled, knowing John was appealing in part to her ego, and Sherlock on her loyalty to him. She couldn't, she wasn't capable of telling her uncle no, not when it mattered. And he knew it, too.

"I still have a case to solve back in London. A drug lord to stop, and if Scotland Yard is still predictably inadequate, a missing chemist to find as well. I'll tell them tonight after dinner, and we leave tomorrow night on the last train for London." Sherlock used his hand to pull her in, and she gave up when he hugged her to his chest, his big hand rubbing at the tense muscles of her neck, under her hair. "If we're lucky, Mycroft and Lestrade will stay here another day as planned, and you can do what you must before he returns to London."

"Do we have to keep this from him?" John asked softly, leaning on Sherlock's other shoulder, his hand rubbing Violet's back in apology for waylaying her. "If we tell him about Moriarty, he'll rescind his offer to Mary because of her association with her, but what about the Clean Slate? Surely he won't begrudge Violet using it to keep Mary safe."

Violet pulled back just enough to see Sherlock's face, his eyes the only splash of color on his otherwise pale face. He was thinking, eyes faded, his awareness spinning. She would follow his lead, and trust he knew what he was doing.

"We shall see. It's best to ask forgiveness than permission, anyway. We leave tomorrow night."

Violet grumbled, and gently pulled away from her uncles. The ring resting with the tags let Violet have a small moment of obsession free clarity, before her mind got pulled back into her codes. Sherlock and John getting married meant she could call John her uncle as readily as she did the two related by blood. Her family was getting bigger, and better, every time she turned around.

It was the best gift of all.

"Well, since we leave tomorrow night, then I'm stealing your room. Mycroft won't dare snoop in here, especially with you two going at each other like newlyweds. I'll be over here in the corner, saving the day."

Violet ignored the dual groans of exasperation as she sat back down at the desk, mind occupied already.

* * *

><p><strong>Christmas Day, Evening<strong>

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Mum. I have a case to solve back in London. Violet's in danger until Woodley is stopped." Sherlock murmured, eyeing the door to the kitchen over her shoulder. Marion figured he was making sure no one else was walking this way, to avoid explaining himself to multiple people. Her youngest was up to something for certain. "And she wants to leave, for a little while at least. I believe she and Anthea are no longer special friends."

Marion eyed her youngest, seeing his impassive face, the stony cold eyes and the way he was standing, rigid determination clear in the set of his shoulders.

"Don't be lying to me with the truth, William Sherlock Scott Holmes!" She snapped at him, glowering. "I can see it's something more than that, but I won't pry." Marion grumbled, putting away the last dish, throwing the towel on the rack to dry.

Dinner had been a far more relaxed affair than the debacle of the night before, just family. Marion smiled despite her displeasure, realizing she considered Greg and John family already. Her sons were deeply enamored of their partners, the air was thick with love and those special glances that always led to something more. She may be of an age where such things didn't matter as much, but she remembered well how it felt. To be young, and newly in love.

Marion looked at Sherlock, her son leaning against the sink, arms crossed over his chest. He wore a wary look on his face, clearly unused to having someone see through him so easily. John was getting there, pretty soon he'd have her beat. Marion saw the flash of metal underneath his collar, a chain around his neck. Sherlock wasn't one to wear jewelry, at most a wristwatch.

She moved quickly enough he couldn't dart away, and he sighed as she tugged the chain free from his shirt. Marion felt tears prick her eyes as she read the tags, John's name and information stamped clearly in the shiny steel, and she saw the ring nestled among them.

"Oh, Sherlock." Marion whispered, a hand over her mouth. She held the ring, and smiled past her tears. She knew without being told what it meant, that her son had a partner who loved him, faults and virtues in all, and was willing to make it official. John was a brave man, and his determination to be with her son made her the happiest mother this side of the Atlantic.

"Umm… he asked me." Sherlock said, hesitant. Shy, as if he feared her reaction.

"And you said?"

"He doesn't want me to answer him yet." Sherlock huffed out, annoyance and frustration deepening his voice. He was nearly mumbling, and she grinned. John was a very smart man as well.

Sherlock saw her grin, and tugged the necklace away from her, putting back under his shirt out of sight.

"What?" Sherlock demanded, wondering at her expression.

"He's wise man, your doctor."

"What do you mean?"

"He knows you well, and knows that you tend to jump into things without pondering the consequences. You think so fast, sometimes you outthink yourself. He knows you want to say yes, but he also wants you to be sure."

"What's there to be sure about?" He asked her, throwing up his hands in exasperation. He ran a hand threw his curls, a sure sign he was at his wit's end. "I love him, I want to say yes."

Marion checked over her shoulder, glad they were alone. Her poor boy was lost and didn't even know why.

"Look at me, darling." She ordered him, grabbing one of his hands, tugging until he met her gaze. He looked so confused. "I know you love John. I also know how you feel about marriage. For you, it's either a waste of paper, or a legal transaction. I suspect a large part of you sees this marriage as a convenience, a way to bind John to you in every way, so the world doesn't interfere with the two of you. Now get that look off your face-…." She chided. Sherlock was indignant, upset with her summation of his marriage opinions. "I know you love John, and that the delightful, buried part of your heart wants this marriage for sentimental reasons too. But we both know what you think of sentiment. John loves you, and feels differently about marriage than you do."

"Yes, I know." He said, obviously wishing for her to get to the point.

"Tell me how John sees marriage, Sherlock." She rubbed his hand, and glared at him when he rolled his eyes. He settled down, and dropped his head. "Think hard about it, too."

Sherlock sighed, and held her hand back. She smiled, glad to have him stop fighting her on this. He needed to see, to understand.

"He sees it as a promise, a partnership." He snuck her a glance, and she nodded at him encouragingly. He bit his lip, and dug deeper. "John thinks it's something to be valued, worked at, that it's something worth having."

"Go on."

"He thinks it's something respectable, desirable. He's a man meant to be married, so he can devote every shred of himself to another person." His voice trailed off, and he blinked rapidly. "The person he marries will be first in his life, before everything else, every other distraction or temptation."

Marion nodded, and pulled him closer. He sighed, and gave her the saddest look she'd ever seen on him, even one to rival the look he wore after he faked his death, and came back to hide from his pain in his old room. He was starting to understand what it meant for John to propose.

"Can you, my darling boy, make John the center of your universe, the most important thing in your life? Can you make the choice between a case, and John? Usually you're both on the same page, but the time will come when you'll have to choose between who you are, and your spouse. Conflicts arise, decisions to be made, every day that goes by in your lives together. Can you forego your own pain, to soothe his? What happens if John doesn't want to be your crime solving partner anymore, and be just a doctor? Can you adjust to that? Can you sacrifice what you want, to make someone else happy?"

"I…."

"Shush, let me finish. John is the type of man who will do anything, anything Sherlock, to make the person he marries happy. Even if it means sacrificing the things that make him happy. He loves you so much, he's willing to do anything for you. I fear, and so does he, that you will take advantage of his willingness to sacrifice for you, and you'll cease to be partners. It'll be only about you, what you want and need, and there'll be nothing left for John."

"But I love him… I wouldn't hurt him!" Sherlock's face was a study in shock, dismay, anger, and denial. And there was doubt….. hidden in his eyes, Marion saw the doubt grow.

"Can you be certain of that? I know you well, my dear boy. It's entirely possible you would become that way, if he let you, if you didn't fight to remain equals. Not deliberately on your part, but it might happen all the same."

"Is that why he wants me to think about it?"

"Yes, dear. He loves you, and wants you, but he is afraid that you'll destroy each other if you enter this union before you've thought things through. He's afraid he'll be unable to protect you, from everything, and most especially from yourself. He's afraid that you'll consume him, too." Marion put a hand to the back of his head, and pulled him down for a kiss to his forehead. He looked so sad and lost, she didn't want him to think there was no hope for him and John.

"Sherlock." She whispered in his ear, and he lifted his eyes to her. "I have more hope for you now than I ever did. John has made you grow, opened you up to your heart, he makes you better, stronger, wiser. If you enter into a marriage with him, fully prepared and aware of what it means to the both of you, I have no fears for your future together. Marriage is a case that needs constant solving, it is never closed. Remember that, and you'll be fine."

Sherlock held her gaze, damp eyes full of entreaty and bedraggled hope. He must have seen her confidence, her faith in him, because he relaxed. She was glad they were still alone, otherwise he would never have let her hold him, nor would he have rested his head on her shoulder.

* * *

><p><strong>London, Christmas Evening<strong>

Jaime watched the sun set on Christmas, the last orange rays disappearing over the London skyline. The wind stirred as the sun set, cold air rising from the shadows, each breath painful and sharp. Unusually cold, even for winter, London was freezing with each passing day. Temperatures were plummeting, and this was one of the coldest holidays on record. The lonely atmosphere called to her, the silence in the deepening dark a siren call.

Jaime stepped out from the front stoop, the front garden of her brother's cottage covered in snow. She felt the snap of the frozen air over her skin, and her muscles tightened instinctively before she relaxed them. Twilight was illuminating the small street, the city lights few and far between. It was quiet, traffic rare on this street, the other houses shuttered and vacant.

_As silent as the voice in my mind. I cannot hear him. _

Jaime walked out into the yard, the crunch of the snow under her boots the only sound. Her breath frosted the air, and she ran her fingers through it, watching the swirls fade away.

She stared at her hand, the smooth skin, the perfect nails, the tiny scars faded, nearly invisible. Years of handling sharp objects, climbing over rough terrain, and fighting tooth and nail for her brother's orders and blood money had left the faintest of marks on her body. The scar she bore across her shoulders and back from Blackwood's fiery death was the only true visible mark on her body. A single scar of her wretchedly violent and dark life.

"Jaime?" She turned to the woman standing in the doorway, Mary's deep blue eyes shrouded in concern. Jaime had been withdrawn, quiet, trapped by memories after the phone call to Violet. "Jaime, sweetheart, are you okay?"

Jaime dropped her hand, and looked to the sky. The winter moon was already bright, high in the sky, full and so clear she could see the darker marks on its surface. The moon bore scars, much as she did.

"It is strange for me, Mary."

"What is?" Mary whispered, silently coming to her side, habit making each footfall soundless, even in the snow. Old habits are the best habits.

Jaime stared at the moon, its light cold, yet so bright. She was fading away, as fast as her frozen breath in the night air, falling to pieces beneath the heartless moon. There was nothing holding her anymore….

"Talking to Sherlock Holmes. Not planning his death, or anyone else's. That was my whole life, planning the next death." Jaime whispered, watching her breath swirl into the darkness. "I did as he bade me, as my master asked. Always his voice in my head, telling me what to do, always."

"Your master? Sweetheart, he was your brother." She could hear Mary's concern in her voice, her words.

"He was my master since the day he taught me to kill," Jaime told the moon, the same moon that hung high in the sky the night she slew Lord Blackwood, her brother's words cycling in her head, her mind, overriding her fear. Giving her power. "He taught me how to save myself, and I stopped fearing everything that day. There was nothing left but him, and how much I loved him. I owed him everything, and so I gave him everything I was."

Jaime blinked, her eyes dry from gazing at the moon and the cold air. She dropped her head, and looked at Mary. Her blue eyes were luminous and vibrant in the moonlight, her face crafted from porcelain, and yet even smoother, finer. Jaime felt the vague sense of loss, of being weightless, small under the heavens slowly vanish, the love she saw in Mary's eyes stronger than any melancholy.

"It's you now, Mary." Jaime told her, and she placed her hand along Mary's warm cheek. Mary leaned into her, holding her hand over hers. The blonde woman sighed, her eyes asking the question, what she meant. "I am…darkness. I am Death, in truth. I tried to have Clay show me how to exist, to be real, but he can't reach me like you. I don't know how to exist without a focus, purpose. I need you, Mary. Be what I need, be my master. I already love you, save me, please."

"Oh, sweetheart." Mary lifted a small hand, her slim fingers tracing over the planes of her face. "I won't be your master, but I will be your love. I'll always be your love. That will be enough. I'll be all you need, because I love you."

Jaime sighed, and hoped Mary was right. She no longer had his voice to guide her, James was gone. Truly gone. She had not even his bones to visit, no empty grave to stand beside. He was gone, forever, and her life aimless without him, and without his purpose guiding her throughout her days.

She would let Mary guide her, whether the other woman wanted to or not. Jaime knew in her wasteland of a heart that she couldn't be in the same world as this wonderful woman without something, someone, holding her together. Keeping her in bounds, and under control.

Jaime silently gave her allegiance to Mary, vowing in her heart to treasure her, love her, and obey her as long as she breathed. For Mary, there was nothing she wouldn't do, no task too great.

"I love you, Mary. You may not be my master, but you can be my guiding star. As bright as the stars above us now in the night sky, that is how you shine for me," Jaime whispered, and she dipped her head, brushing her lips over Mary's soft and luscious mouth.

_I will follow you, Mary. I am yours, no measure spared. I am yours._

Jaime kissed her, lips cool and so appealing. Mary gasped, and her sleek, firmly toned arms roped around her neck. Mary pressed her full length against her, and Jaime sighed, deepening the kiss. Heat grew, slow and sure, embers stoked, each breathy sigh and sweet gasp Mary gave her causing her blood to run hotter and hotter.

Jaime pulled back, and gripped Mary's hand in hers, and firmly towed the smaller woman after her, to the house. Mary followed eagerly, and Jaime crashed through the front door, the old wood bouncing off the wall and slamming shut behind them. Jaime led Mary to the bedroom, and she slammed the door shut behind them. Her room was dark, the drapes closed. No light, just touch.

Jaime slid her hand up Mary's arm in the dark, and she stopped at the zipper of her coat. Jaime grabbed the tiny piece of metal, and slowly, surely, tugged it down. Mary helped her, and shrugged from free from her coat, tossing it away into the shadows. Jaime grabbed her own collar, and ripped off her own coat, the long black fabric sliding down her torso, hips, and her legs. Mary's hands were on her waist, and Jaime stepped into her embrace. Their mouths found each other in the darkness, tongues sweetly caressing, soft lips wet and delicious.

"Jaime? Are you sure?"

"I am not afraid of love." Jaime vowed, and picked the smaller woman up, and tossed them both onto the bed, the soft blankets welcoming them. "I will never be afraid again."

Jaime rolled over on top of Mary, taking infinite care not to put any weight on her, no pressure on her abdomen. Every part of Mary was precious, even the child she bore. Mary was kicking off her boots, and Jaime laughed softly, doing the same.

Jaime kissed her, her sweet mouth returning each advance with eager passion, leaving her breathless. She felt Mary's hands work under her shirt, and Jaime sat up, straddling Marys' thighs. She finished for her, and pulled her shirt off over her head. Mary's small hands swept up her stomach, over her ribs, and cupped her breasts. Jaime tossed back her head, the sensation so new, so invigorating, every muscle in her thighs clenched and tensed.

Mary sat up, Jaime in her lap, and her soft lips kissed her shoulders, tiny white teeth nipping at her skin. Jaime moaned softly, and gasped as Mary's hands wandered behind her back. She unsnapped her bra without hesitation, and Jaime felt the tiny scrap of fabric slip off her arms and away. Mary cupped her breasts, thumbs brushing her nipples, and Jaime gasped and giggled all at once. She felt Mary smile, her lips pressed to her shoulder.

Jaime followed her lead, and found the hem of Mary's shirt, tugging the fabric up. Mary raised her arms, and Jaime pulled the offending garment off, tossing it to the floor. Mary was slim, and she was far more muscular than she had been the month prior. Jaime smiled, seeing the methods her poor love had used to manage her pent of frustrations while in hiding. She would offer her a new method of exercising, now.

She slowly placed a hand on Mary's side, thumb rubbing the soft skin. Mary sighed, sounding so happy, and Jaime went higher, over her ribs. She stopped just below her bra, and Jaime waited a heartbeat before slipping her hand underneath. She touched the firm, yet soft swell of a breast, and Mary ran kisses up her shoulder, and along her neck. Jaime moved her hand back, and with one tiny flick of her fingers, unsnapped Mary's bra.

For some reason, Mary giggled, and Jaime took that as encouragement. She tugged, and Mary was suddenly naked from the waist up. Jaime put both hands on Mary's shoulders, and pushed, lightly. Mary fell back on the bed, Jaime above her. She bent over, and placed a wet, open mouthed kiss to Mary's abdomen, just above her navel. She heard the soft, breathy sigh above her in the dark, and Jaime went higher, kissing and tasting. Mary writhed the tiniest amount on the blankets, her small hands gripping and releasing on Jaime's arms.

Jaime paused, and closed her eyes. She found that shivering, elusive, fragile nugget of fear and nerves that was trying to spread through her mind and body, and gripped it ruthlessly. Jaime strangled the fear, the nerves, choked it out and ground it to dust, letting the remnant blow away in the cold east wind of her soul. She breathed out, and let her mouth settle on the sweet curve of Mary's breast.

Mary exhaled in a rush of sound, enticing Jaime's senses. She sucked lightly on the pert nipple she found, enjoying every twitch of Mary's muscles beneath her hands. The blonde woman was panting, and the broken words that slipped past her lips were words Jaime had never heard before, not whispered so reverently. The taste of Mary's skin was sweet, the faint hint of mint from her body wash and the suggestion of salt addicting. Jaime moved higher, kissing the delightful curve of the breast she worshipped, to the lean muscles of a graceful neck.

Jaime slowly touched her lips and tongue over Mary's jaw, to the soft pink lips she spent most of her day thinking about. This kiss was gentle, intimate, Jaime sighing in relief to feel them again, responding to her eagerly. She was so captivated by the soft lips she tasted she didn't notice Mary maneuvering beneath her, not until the smaller woman lifted with her hips, and flipped her on her back.

Jaime went, startled, and doing her best not to tense up. Mary knelt between her thighs, and her slim fingers were carefully undoing the waistband of her cargo pants. The buttons popped free, one at a time, and Jaime breathed fast, fingers digging into the blankets under her. She felt exposed, open, her body being bared layer by layer. If this had been anyone other than Mary she would have snapped, and ended the night in violence.

_My loyalty, my life, my heart. Take me all, everything I am._

Jaime relaxed, and Mary felt the tension leave her, her fingers moving faster. Hands gripped her waistband, and her cargo pants were peeled off and away. Jaime didn't have time to acclimate before two fingers snuck under her panties, and they were gone too.

She was naked before Mary, legs open, with the cool air touching her intimately. Gentle fingers dusted over her inner thighs, and she couldn't restrain the whimper as hands splayed wide on her legs, coaxing them open further. She obeyed, her stomach clenching, knees lifting on their own. Mary lowered herself to the bed, and there was just enough light leaking into the room for Jaime to catch a glimpse of pale skin and glittering eyes between her legs.

The first touch was a singular one, cautious, exploratory. A fingertip, small and sweetly wielded slid through her wet folds, and Jaime shook. A single, tiny touch made her whole body react, a tightening of muscles in her core. She never felt the like before, and she nearly flew off the bed when she felt a breath exhale beside the finger touching her up and down, top to bottom.

"Sshhh. Easy sweetheart. Relax, let me show you something wonderful." Mary's whisper soared out from the dark, her breath caressing her most vulnerable place. Jaime whimpered, as that one finger coasted up, opening her.

Jaime cried out as that one finger teased her entrance, the small digit circling it, getting her used to the idea of it being there, touching her like that. She knew it was coming, her body torn between fleeing and acceptance. Mary's slim finger teased her, deeper and deeper, until her finger was wet, and sliding in and out easily. Jaime groaned, the sensation so wonderful she had no basis for comparison, and she didn't resist when a second finger joined the first.

Two fingers slid in and out of her, and a liquid wave spilled free, Mary chuckling in appreciation, her warm breath making Jaime lift her hips. She was asking, as best she could, for something, what she didn't know. Mary knew, and suddenly a wet tongue joined the delightful dance between her legs. The scream that wrenched free from her throat was startling, and quickly silenced, Jaime heaving for air around her hand. Mary licked her, her tongue finding her sensitive little nub and her lips sucking on it softly. Fingers plunged with a formidable intensity inside of her, curling to teasingly touch a special place just out of reach.

Jaime was sobbing, toes curling in the blankets, hand clamped over her mouth, the other ripping at the cloth beneath her. Her thighs were quivering, hips writhing, and the tongue and fingers driving her mad were relentless. The fingers pulled away, and Jaime cried out in protest at the aching empty sensation, right up until it was filled, a wicked tongue slipping inside of her.

Jaime shattered. Both hands gripped the bed, her hips lifting, her spine arching like a bow, her cries of release bouncing off the walls. Mary caught her hips, pulling her back to the bed, and drove her higher. Her tongue knew just where to touch, to lick, how long she needed to dip inside, and to lick up the juices freely flowing as Jaime came.

She had her first orgasm screaming Mary's name, a fiery white hot wave of liquid heat erupting behind her eyes, blinding her, air burning in her lungs, every single muscle in her body obeying the woman who tortured her so adeptly. Cry after helpless cry ripped from her chest, and Jaime succumbed to the swirling chaos of her body.

A smaller climax chased hard on the first one's heels, and Jaime shuddered, brain exploding in a shower of sparks and heart pounding rapidly. Muscles deep inside of her clenched and released, over and over, each time making her spasm across every nerve. The gentle tongue between her legs was slowly licking every inch of her, sucking and nibbling. Jaime was a ruined wreck of a woman, and loved every instant of her destruction.

"Mary!" She sobbed, lungs seeking air, each breath begging for more air, her body flash burning through the oxygen in each panting gasp.

Mary placed one last gentle kiss on her most vulnerable spot, before lifting up in the shadows. Mary's hands rubbed soothing over Jaime's thighs, each glide from her delicate fingers impossible to ignore. Mary was humming softly, her fingers calming, and Jaime blinked wearily at the woman sitting between her legs.

"Mary?" She didn't even sound like herself anymore; Jaime couldn't recall ever hearing such a vulnerable and yet happy edge to her own voice. At least, not offered honestly, without artifice.

"Yes, sweetheart?" Mary asked her softly, crawling up alongside her, and Jaime pulled her close with one shaking arm. She held Mary to her chest, her whole body useless, rendered into putty and tingling nerves. If they were to be attacked right now, she would be unable to defend Mary or herself, much less move a finger.

"What about you?" Jaime didn't know much about these things worked, but she figured past the fuzzy feeling in her head that maybe Mary wanted some attention too.

"Hmmm. This is all for you, sweetheart. Let me know when you're ready for more." Mary whispered in the dark, and Jaime felt a grin coming on, and she giggled. Both arms held the smaller woman to her chest, and Mary leaned up for a kiss.

"Now." The world's deadliest assassin grinned in the darkness, eyes that were once bright with madness and grief now free of all ghosts. She hugged her love to her, and searched out her lips for another kiss.

* * *

><p><strong>December 26<strong>**th**

"_Dead?!"_ Woodley roared, the sound deafening in the warehouse, and technicians and guards alike froze. "What do you mean, he's dead?!"

"Master….. After you were spotted on the train by Holmes, and the failure to lure Sherlock to his death, The Vicar decided to take care of everything himself. He left that night, and somehow Holmes knew about it. They killed him the next morning." Peter whispered to the floor, his breath stirring the dust and minuscule debris on the concrete floors.

He dared not look up; Woodley was so enraged that even loyal, vicious Hannibal was hiding under his master's desk. Peter snuck a glance from his prostrate position on the floor, and saw the hefty beast cowering under the desk, his dark eyes glittering, as if expecting a blow. Woodley would have to be very upset to hit his dog, and he was there. The dog was smart, he'd run at the first crack in Woodley's voice, and Peter received the backhanded blow to the face instead of the dog.

Blood dripped from his mouth to the floor, and he refused to wipe it away. If he moved, Woodley would strike, like a viper in the long grass. Long years taught him better. He was thankful that he was still riding the middle of a high; the pain wasn't as bad as it could be.

"Is the fucking detective still alive? What about the girl?" Woodley growled, his feet coming in to view, barely visible out of the corner of his eye. Peter quaked, and did his best not to start shaking outright.

"Both are intact, master. No casualties other than the Vicar and some of his men." Peter whispered.

No response, no sound. Woodley wasn't moving, and he was breathing slower, not so loudly. Peter dared a quick glance up, and saw Woodley chewing on a neatly manicured nail, destroying the expensive work. It was an old habit, one left over from his rougher days.

"Three million pounds, a year of waiting and watching, and he fucking dies," said the drug lord, staring off over Peter, ignoring the man huddled at his feet. "Fucking prat. Get up."

It took Peter a moment to realize Woodley meant him, and he slowly sat up, muscles protesting at having spent so much time on the cold, hard floor. He didn't stand until Woodley paced away from him, and even then he kept his gaze averted, face down. He watched his master from under his lashes, as Woodley paced to the long table, his fingers tapping away on the hard surface.

"Anything else?" Woodley asked, his deep voice settling down, the set of his shoulders telling Peter that he was thinking, and deeply.

"The detective has purchased three return tickets to London, sir. They should be leaving this evening, getting back in late tonight sometime. No one else is returning yet, at this time."

"The elder brother isn't returning?"

"Not that I was informed, sir. Our contacts said only three tickets were purchased, under Sherlock Holmes' name."

"He pieced it together, after we passed each other in the hall on the train. I doubted his abilities, no one should have been able to figure out my identity. Fast, too. He followed me off the train, and he avoided my man outside in the lot. My mistake, leaving only one man to finish him off. I won't make another mistake." Woodley murmured, mostly to himself. "He's returning for me, now."

Peter made no reply; he knew better. If Woodley wanted him to speak, he'd ask him a direct question.

"He'll know by now I want his niece. Why is she returning with him?" It was rhetorical; Woodley moved on to a new nail, chewing absently. "Make sure the package is delivered just before he returns to his flat."

"Yes, sir, we have a man in place." Peter replied, glad he had some good news to provide. A huge, nasty grin swept across his master's face, and Peter felt sick to his gut.

"Good. See how well that fucking freak handles my present. It should take care of him for us." Woodley started to laugh, and Hannibal crept out from under the desk in response. His stubby tail was wagging, and Woodley snapped his fingers. He kept on laughing as Hannibal pranced over to him, the big monster leaning happily on his legs. "And if it doesn't, if he has the willpower to resist, he'll see the threat."

"Peter, get the car ready. I'm going to the club, call _Sinful Vices,_ and have the VIP room prepped. I feel the need to celebrate."

* * *

><p><strong>December 26<strong>**th****, Midday**

Greg watched as Mycroft fussed with the computer, his spymaster busy texting and making hushed calls. Anthea was at his side, and Greg watched them from the fireside chair as they sat together at the kitchen table, working with the information Violet had given her uncle. Bear was at his feet, the hairy beast panting contentedly from the heat of the fire, each breath enough to move Greg's legs. He was impressive, and Greg wondered how long Sherlock thought he was going to get away with keeping the kidnapping victim's dog.

Greg lifted his gaze back the two people at the table, and went on with his internal musings. Anthea was quiet, Sherlock's declaration of returning to London with John and Violet this coming evening having rattled the female operative. She might have been expecting more time with Violet, or using the others as a buffer from awkward silences. Mycroft told Greg the night before that Violet and Anthea had parted ways, and all because of Anthea's unresolved feelings for him. Greg remembered the whole conversation, very clearly.

Mycroft hadn't hesitated the night before when Greg confronted him about Anthea. Mycroft was aware that Anthea loved him, and he had known for quite some time. It wasn't until her kidnapping several weeks prior that he came to realize the quality of her love for him, and the depths she cared. Mycroft didn't shy away, confessing to Greg that she moved him, and held a part of his heart.

"I love you, Gregory. It is you I want to sleep beside, live with, share my life and grow old with. And I love her, yes. More than I should, than is wise. I have for a long time. But I never loved her enough to let her in, to make her mine. I had years, Gregory. Years to change our relationship, to let it flourish. Yet I chose not to. Because of you."

Greg remembered that he was lost in a tumult of pain, embarrassment, frustration, and love hearing Mycroft's words. They'd been in Mycroft's room, his spymaster sitting on the edge of the bed, running his watch and its new fob through his long, elegant fingers. Mycroft never lifted his gaze from his face, and Greg didn't bother hiding his emotions. Mycroft saw everything he was feeling.

"For five years, Greg, she's stood beside me. I thought once or twice about being her lover, changing the dynamic. She is beautiful, and she has never been frightened of me, or intimidated. That was a rare quality, and hard to find in a sexual partner. Too many of my previous ones were far more interested in my position, and not me, that even a casual sexual liaison became onerous after a few weeks."

Greg watched as Mycroft dropped everything, his armor fading fast. He remained silent, but his heart broke a little as Mycroft did his best to be honest with him, upfront.

"I kept you apart, firmly planted in the part of my life that connected to Sherlock. I am good at that, separating how I felt, from what I needed to do. After Sherlock…jumped…. I told myself that not seeing you on a regular basis was wise. My preoccupation with you was dangerous, and I didn't…. I felt I didn't deserve to feel anything for you. For so many reasons, none of which I think I'll go into right now."

Greg wandered closer to the bed, and Mycroft had this look that just begged for reassurance. Sad eyes, so fucking sad that Greg didn't stop his hand from rising, and brushing the back of his fingers over his handsome cheek. Mycroft gave him a small smile, and continued.

"Per Sherlock's conditions for faking his death, we followed John Watson. Kept him safe if necessary, had him under surveillance. I did that for my brother, even though I disapproved of the depths of affection that Sherlock held for the doctor. And I….. Did the same for you."

"What?" Greg remembered being confused, wondering what Mycroft meant.

"I had you under surveillance too. Not as thorough as John, not as constant, but I would get reports, photos. I knew when your marriage ended, when your wife left you. I got a report on you twice a week, for two years. I convinced myself it was because you were one of Moriarty's targets, and that was reason enough for the surveillance to escape the notice of my peers. But I did it to keep seeing you."

"Sounds rather extreme now. I didn't understand how I felt about you, the obsession I was fighting off tooth and nail. I didn't know I was in love with you. I have never loved anyone the way I love you. It took me years, and my brother's headlong fall into love, that woke me up."

Mycroft stood, holding Greg's hand to his face, the other running his fingertips across his chest, to hover over Greg's heart.

"Gregory. I never made the decision to get involved with Anthea because of you. I didn't go to you because I was a fool, convinced what I felt for you was nothing more than a passing diversion. And part of me fears I didn't go to you after your marriage ended because of how I felt for her. It's a fear, a small one, that I let a lesser love hold me back from the greatest love I could ever have in my lifetime."

"She will never mean more to me than she does now. What I feel for you hasn't stopped growing since the moment I saw you again in Sherlock's flat all those weeks ago. Everyday my love for you eclipses what I feel for Anthea."

Mycroft stepped to him, and Greg didn't step away. Mycroft slowly, carefully, held out his arms, and Greg sighed. He stepped into his lover's arms, and Mycroft held him tightly.

"The other morning I realized how I really felt about her, and my thoughts since then have been about you. I almost died, and my last thoughts were of you. I love you. I will never choose another over you. Never."

"I don't know how to handle her, or what she feels for me. All I know is that I love you enough to promise not to hide anything from you, or make a decision without consulting you. You are my partner, Gregory. In every way."

Greg held Mycroft, hugging the thinner man to him. Mycroft sounded calm, in control, but he had small tremors running through his lanky frame. Greg rubbed a hand up and down his back, and kept it up as Mycroft relaxed against him. The spymaster buried his nose behind his ear, and Greg smiled as it tickled. Mycroft loved his hair for some reason.

"Always so complicated with the Holmes' boys. Can't just say you love me more, and you're not planning on cheating on me with her. Always gotta be grandiose speeches." Greg teased the man he held, holding Mycroft to him as the taller man stiffened up, indignant. "Hey now, I'm just playing. I was more worried about how you were feeling about this than worried about you choosing her over me."

"I….. Oh." Mycroft mumbled, and Greg chuckled. "I thought you were really upset…."

"Not gonna lie, I'm thinking this is a fucked up working relationship you've got, but I can't judge. I love Sally, but I also know she doesn't love me like Anthea loves you. Most a man can be upset about is the fact you didn't talk this out with her before now." Greg told Mycroft plainly, pulling back just enough to see his lover's face. Mycroft was blinking at him, his intelligent eyes cloudy with resignation and nerves.

"I don't…..talk about things like this with her. We never have."

"And that's what's gotten you both into this mess, and hurting Violet as well. I'm not the world's smartest man when it comes to relationships, but my own wreckage of a marriage showed me the value of communication. You're a serious talker, Mycroft Holmes. So talk to her."

"I….." Mycroft hesitated, and Greg glared at him, doing his best to look stern. To his surprise, Mycroft blinked, and nodded once. "I'll talk to her."

Greg snapped back from his memory of the night before, and eyed the two people sitting at the table. The space between them was tangible with a forlorn tension, and Greg wondered what the conversation had been like. He would never ask, it wasn't his business, but the dynamic was different now.

* * *

><p><strong>December 26<strong>**th****, Morning (Prior to the previous scene)**

Mycroft hesitated, hating his indecision. Anthea was outside, hands and face burrowed into her thick winter jacket as she sat on the iron wrought bench in his mother's rear garden. This was one of the best views from the house, encompassing the entire length of the valley, and the hills beyond. He stepped away from the door, highly aware that Gregory was inside the house, knowing he was out here, and what he was about to do. Mycroft kept reciting what he wanted to say, over and over in his head, more nervous than he had been as a child about to give his first presentation in class.

Anthea heard the door shut softly behind him, only the tilt of her head revealing her awareness of him. He buttoned up his jacket, part of him ruing the visit home, as the country always felt colder than the city.

He sat beside her on the bench, and leaned back, flinching as he felt the cold iron through his thick coat. He didn't say anything, and she sat back as well, copying his pose. They both stared out over the snow covered valley, the pine trees the only splash of color against the white.

Mycroft jumped when she spoke, not expecting her to say anything first.

"I know what this is about. Greg and Violet both know how I feel about you. I wasn't subtle the other day after Williamson tried to kill you. I shouldn't have acted like that. I'm sorry." Her tone was flat, even. No emotion, just exhaustion. She didn't look at him, just stared ahead at the vista spread before them.

"Anthea….." Mycroft whispered, and he struggled not to let his emotions get the better of him. This was the right thing to do, and he should have done it years ago. He just didn't know how to say it, not now.

"It's alright, Mycroft. I know you love me. You know I love you. Haven't hid that either. I just never acted on it when I should have. And then you fell, hard and fast for Greg, and I knew it was over for me. Part of me feels like I never walked out of Blackwood, that my confession as I was facing my death really were my last words."

"Anthea, no." Mycroft objected, the finality in her voice bothering him, her choice of words ominous. "Don't you dare think that, feel like that."

"I'm okay, Mycroft. I'm not suicidal, I'm not going to be selfish and hurt myself. I love you, but no man has that kind of power over me, to make me do something like that to myself. Not even you." She reached out, and grabbed his hand, holding tightly. He let her, gripping back just as hard.

"I don't know what to do, or say. Whenever I'm at a loss, my instinct was to always turn to you. Most times you were a thought ahead of me, knowing what I needed before I did." Mycroft said, and he closed his eyes, feeling like he was being ripped apart, seam by seam. "I can't do that this time, not with this."

Anthea finally turned to him, and he opened his eyes, the cold air making his eyes sting. She was so lovely, even when hiding her emotions, her face a blank mask. It was her eyes that gave away the chaos within, their verdant depths a tumultuous blend of pain, love, regret.

"I value my time with you. I believe in what we've done together, and what I've helped you achieve. But if that must come to an end, I'll do it, I'll walk away. I'll go back to Headquarters, move out of your home, and do my best by my country somewhere else. I can't be around you anymore, Mycroft. I've been selfish, I've been fostering these feelings for you even though I never had a chance. I have to stop doing that to myself."

"I… you always know what is needed. I'm sorry." Mycroft whispered, and any thoughts of trying to say his foolishly practiced words from earlier were gone now. She knew what needed to be done; she'd just been waiting on him to come to her. He couldn't think of anything to say, this moment of time beyond his experience. He didn't know how to say goodbye to someone he loved.

"We get through the next few days, and once we're home, I'll start searching for my replacement. I'll find you someone who isn't afraid of you, who'll see past the position to the man underneath. Though I'm thinking it might have to be someone who isn't going to fall in love with you. Twice in a row is a bit much." Anthea murmured, and Mycroft was floored by her bravery. She wasn't hiding, she wasn't pretending, she wasn't treating this like it would all go away if they ignored it. She was by far the better person, and far stronger than he. She knew what needed to be done to take care of herself, and she was doing it.

"You always do that to me. Make me feel smart, and dumb, at the same time." Mycroft mumbled, still holding her hand, marveling at her. She was a strong, smart, wonderful woman who wasn't afraid to make a sacrifice. "I was prepared to tell you that we could still work together, just not as closely, or something. All idiotic ideas. I feel like I'm a teenage boy all over again, getting dumped by my first girlfriend. I thought I was the clever one."

"Oh, Mycroft. You are the clever one. Just not with the heart." She let go of his hand, and stood. She stared down at him, her face easing into a sad, but real smile. He smiled back at her, his attempt weak compared to hers. "Back inside, it's too cold out here. Go tell Greg everything is okay now, and he needn't worry. I won't be living with you after the New Year, and he can move in officially without worrying about me."

Mycroft stood, and followed behind her, heading for the house. She hadn't let him say much of anything, and compared to how this went to what he had been expecting, it was a good thing too. She was right, he was clever in all things but affairs of the heart. She was far wiser, and braver, than he.

* * *

><p><strong>December 26<strong>**th****, Late Evening**

Violet stretched out on her back on the bench seat, plopping her head on John's thigh, and she smiled, hearing John sigh in exasperation. She rested her laptop on her stomach, and went back to her code.

"You know, it's a good thing Sherlock's not wired the wrong way, otherwise he'd get really jealous, considering the amount of snuggling he walks in on all the time." John told her, his tone slightly cranky. Violet tilted her head back on his very warm and muscular thigh, and sent him a wink. She grinned outright when he blushed, and she went right back to typing furiously.

"Jealous of what?" Sherlock asked as he came back into the compartment, sliding shut the door. The train was quiet, few people traveling back into the city this soon after the holiday, and not this late at night. They were nearly home, and Violet couldn't wait to get started on the Clean Slate, and sleep in her own bed at the flat. She was torn between which one she wanted more, sleep or codes.

"John keeps thinking you'll get jealous of me using him as a human body pillow." Violet murmured, distracted slightly. Sherlock walked in and sat on the seat opposite, stretching out his long legs, feet touching John's.

"Really?" Sherlock sounded curious, and she tilted her head to see him eyeing John, one brow raised in question. "Why?"

"Well, c'mon…not every day a pretty girl wants to snuggle with me, and have it not be, ya know…for non-snuggling reasons." John struggled to explain, and Violet rolled her eyes. "And not every bloke would be okay with his lover snuggling with a twenty-six year old woman."

"Violet is gay, John."

"Um, yeah noticed that, thanks." John was blushing all out now, and Violet lifted a hand over her head, and patted him absently on the shoulder before she returned to her code.

"She snuggles with you because you're safe, John. A safe man, who won't take advantage, or presume. She gets comfort, reassurance and safety, and I know you enjoy it." Sherlock stated calmly, and Violet was only paying attention to them with one ear. Her mind was too busy with what she was doing to care that they were effectively speaking about her like she wasn't there. They weren't saying anything that wasn't true, so she didn't mind one bit.

"Safety? I can see that…. She seems so confident, why does she need reassurance?" This time it was John's fingers that played with her hair, and Violet enjoyed the petting, her brain settling down. Too much caffeine in the last twenty-four hours, and her mind working in overdrive, had kept her from sleeping since the phone call from Crazy Chick Moriarty the night before.

"She is very similar to me, John. You center me, calm me down, and make me more than I would be alone. You do the same for her, I would presume." Sherlock stated his hypothesis calmly, as if it were obvious, and not a big deal. Violet nodded once, a small movement of her head that John felt on his leg. "The frailty of genius, my dear doctor."

John's hand stilled in her hair, and she felt him looking down at her. Violet didn't say anything, just kept working, and his warm hand settled briefly on her head. She closed her eyes, and enjoyed the affection she felt in that simple touch. He went back to playing with her hair after a small pause in time, and she appreciated the message in that instant.

"Snuggle all you want." John whispered to her, and Violet smiled in thanks, not looking up at him. She faded out her awareness, her codes her full focus, but not before she noticed Sherlock and John engaging in the most adorable game of footsies ever.

* * *

><p><strong>London, Same Day<strong>

Sherlock stepped from the cab, helping Violet out as John exited from the other door. It was extremely late, and both Violet and John were exhausted. Sherlock found himself in the odd position of being the caretaker, and he flatly refused to let Violet go work on the Clean Slate at Mycroft's place until after they all got some sleep. His niece was stumbling in her drained state, and it was past John's usual bedtime. He roped an arm around her waist, and took her bag. John and the cabbie were handling the rest of the luggage, and Sherlock half-carried Violet to the flat's door.

He was confident Woodley wouldn't make any overt moves against him, especially seeing as how the surveillance teams were back in place.

221B was secured, Mycroft having sent his men to make sure Woodley wasn't in the area. The text he'd gotten from his brother made it clear they weren't exactly out from under suspicion due to their rather abrupt departure, as Mycroft made it a point to remind him that he would be watching. Mycroft and Lestrade were due to leave for London tomorrow afternoon, and be back late that night. They had one day to run the Clean Slate before Mycroft returned.

Violet assured him that all she needed to do was collaborate with Mary about the final mission statements she owed Mycroft, and then tweak some things before she unleashed the program she called a 'world-ender.' Moriarty had also called the Clean Slate program that, and Sherlock was insatiably curious as to why that was. Violet was too tired to answer, all she said to him earlier when he asked was it was 'as bad as it sounds'.

Sherlock trudged up the steps of his flat, taking Violet to the couch, and she slid limply to the cushions. She had her mobile out, and was blinking heavily at the screen, doing something. John tipped the cabbie as they deposited their luggage at the doorway, and Sherlock sighed in extreme relief to be home. Visiting his family this time around had been far more enjoyable than he expected, even with killing the Vicar and the uncomfortable emotional dredging up of bad memories, but he was exhausted from dealing with emotional issues. He wanted nothing more than to wrap himself around John's naked body, bury his face in his own pillow, and sleep.

"Mrs. Hudson come back?" John whispered, and he leaned on Sherlock's shoulder. He automatically grabbed John, and held the sleepy man up as he swayed on his feet.

"No, her flat was empty. Why?" He asked the man in his arms, and John waved a tired hand at Sherlock's chair beside the hearth. There was a small glittering object on the seat, with a red and green bow on it.

"Interesting." Sherlock murmured and he leaned John against the desk, intending to walk over to see what it was on his chair.

"Stop." Sherlock halted, a few feet from his chair, and looked back at Violet. She was sitting up, staring at her mobile. The screen illuminated her face clearly in the darkness of the flat, and he met her eyes as she slowly stood. "The bugs caught an intruder, Sherlock. It was planted there by a man I've never seen before. Someone broke in while we were gone."

John moved to her side, his exhaustion gone. He stared at her mobile too, and Sherlock looked back to his chair. He took off his coat and scarf, tossing them to John's chair, and cautiously approached his armchair. Sherlock stepped closer, and reached down. John was at his side in seconds, anxiously hovering at his elbow. The light from the still large moon streamed in through the windows, and Sherlock sucked in a deep breath.

It was a glass test tube vial, larger in diameter than most. It was as long as his hand, and stoppered off by an actual wood cork, red wax sealing it closed. The ribbon tied around it in a simple bow was rich and expensive, red and green. It was the substance inside that nearly dropped Sherlock to his knees. Semi-clear and shining with a myriad of colors, the gel inside the vial shone like ice crystals in the moonlight.

"No…" He breathed out softly, holding it up, transfixed and terrified. It was cold to the touch, a dreadful shard of ice burning in his hand.

"Sherlock, love? What is it?" John asked him, and Sherlock barely heard him. His heart was racing, and he literally couldn't look away from the glass vial in his hand. He was breathing faster, his arms tensing, and his fingers closed tighter around the vial. He was screaming in his head, screaming loudly to put it down, drop it and walk away. His body refused to listen.

"Winter's Night." He whispered to the man standing next to him. "Woodley sent me Winter's Night, John."

Sherlock couldn't think, his brain shrieking, thought scrambling every which way. The vial was cold, subzero, and the substance within was perfect. He knew from long ago experience that this mix, this cocktail, was made for him. Tailored to his body weight and his metabolism. Someone out there in the dregs of society remembered his stats, what he liked. It was Woodley, it must be. There was enough gel in this vial to keep him high for over a week. He was shaking, on the edge of hyperventilating, and he felt like his heart was going to explode in his chest.

"John….." He whispered his lover's name, pleading, begging as best he could for his control to return, his equilibrium to be restored. He was losing himself to old memories, old desires, far more powerful than he ever expected them to be, even after all these years. Shadows within his mind moved of their own volition, across the cityscape of his mind palace, overwhelming the usually peaceful calm of his ordered mind.

A hand, warm and strong, came to rest on his wrist. His cuff was low enough that the fingers locked around his wrist caught his attention, the touch of skin pulling his thoughts away from the vial in his hand. A thumb rubbed firmly, distracting him. Warmth, tendrils of heat, flowed from his wrist, down his arm. There was a shiver of static over his skin, a charge building. His breathing slowed, his heart jumped once, and settled. Heat was fighting off the cold generated by the instinctual terror he was experiencing.

Skin on skin, heat to heat, the sensations spiraled down Sherlock's arm, his mind slowly easing back from the edge. Thoughts tucked themselves neatly away, one by one freeing his mind from the chaos. Fear faded out, indecision beaten back by clarity and confidence. Sherlock breathed in deeply, eyes drifting shut briefly, and he exhaled.

Sherlock opened his eyes to John, his doctor holding him safely in place, the cold vial now nothing but an annoyance, its appeal sifting away like sand through stone blocks as his foundations strengthened. John was inches away, his chest nearly brushing his shoulder, his powerful fingers rubbing his wrist firmly with a gentle pressure. His eyes were nearly black in the low light of the front room, and yet Sherlock could sense the determination, the love, pouring off his doctor. John believed in him…he had always believed in him.

Sherlock lowered his arm, muscles almost cramping, and Sherlock sighed loudly, resigned, and relieved. Sherlock held John's gaze, and turned the vial around in his hand, and he held it out. His doctor gave him that special, sweet smile- the same smile he gave Sherlock the day he confessed his love, and changed both their lives. Sherlock let John take it from him, and the doctor tucked the vial in his pocket before pulling him in for a tight hug. John held him, his strong arms shielding him from the world, and Sherlock exhaled again, each deep release of air setting him free from residual nerves.

He dropped his head to the shorter man's shoulder, and held on tightly. It was lower than was usually comfortable, but he needed John's strength, and suffered the complaining muscles in his neck. John's influence, his love- nothing was stronger when it came to affecting Sherlock.

* * *

><p>John held Sherlock, his detective burying his face against his neck, heart still beating hard in his chest. John felt the tension leaving the long from of the man he hugged, and clutched Sherlock to him.<p>

John held his detective for a long time, and Violet quietly wandered out of the room, heading up the stairs to her bedroom. John waited until he heard the door to her room shut, and he pulled back just enough to softly kiss Sherlock's ear. He caught the edge of a small smile on luscious lips, before Sherlock ducked in, and kissed his temple in return. John leaned his face to the other man's, and they held each other for a heartbeat more before pulling away.

John looked up into the heavenly eyes he loved so much, and he couldn't resist lifting a hand to trace the chiseled planes of the angelic face above him. The moon graced Sherlock with an otherworldly, icy glow, and it was only the warmth of him in John's arms that convinced him that Sherlock was real, and not a vision.

"Are you okay?" John asked him softly, glad to see the stress and anguish gone from the handsome face. Sherlock nuzzled into his hand, and his arms roped around John's waist, keeping their hips tight together. John felt the glass vial of poison in his pocket, digging at his hip. Sherlock paid it no mind, even though he must feel it, considering there was no space between their lower halves.

John would get rid of the drug later, the expression on Sherlock's face holding him captive.

"I'll be fine." Sherlock whispered. "You pulled me back. It's always you, John."

Sherlock nipped gently at the hand he still held to his cheek, and John felt heat stir in his core. They were home, and John felt nothing of the exhaustion that had plagued him the last few hours. John felt an answering heat from Sherlock, where they were pressed so tightly together. The look in his remarkable eyes was that growing flash of a supernova. That look always, always, meant that John was in for a long, wonderful night of Sherlock showing him his formidable skills.

John pulled back from Sherlock, soothing the pout on his face by grabbing one of his hands, and walking him down the hall to their bedroom. John knew the way well in the dark, and he pulled the willing man behind him, through the door of their room. Sherlock closed it, and the lock snapped in place loudly. The drapes were closed, the silver light from the moon slicing through the edges of the fabric. Clean lines of light cut across the bed, and John had enough light to see Sherlock stripping, fast.

John kicked off his boots, ripping off his jumper and shirt at the same time. His heart felt like it was going to climb out of his chest, beating hard on his ribs. His hands were shaking, and he couldn't tear his eyes away from the pale flashed of skin Sherlock revealed as his clothes fell to the floor. He barely got his trousers off before a very naked detective tackled him to the bed.

They landed hard, Sherlock between his legs, and John wrapped them around the lean hips of his lover. Sherlock captured his mouth, his tongue sweeping over his lips, demanding entrance. John groaned, and opened his mouth. Sherlock took the kiss deep, and John let him. He felt the detective's hard arousal pushing on his stomach, Sherlock's hands holding his head tilted to the side, his lips and tongue plundering his mouth. John groaned, overwhelmed, his own hands gripping beseechingly at Sherlock's hips.

Sherlock lifted his mouth away, both breathing fast. Sherlock was weighing him down, hard cock throbbing between them, John's own body eagerly responding. Sherlock moved his hips, as if he were dancing, and John felt his whole body clench. Their cocks brushed together, steel under silky soft skin, and the heat made them both jerk. He threw back his head, Sherlock nipping at his throat, and nothing but delirious moans of delight escaped him as Sherlock drove him insane.

John couldn't stop the soft cries and gasps as Sherlock nibbled his way down his chest, his stomach. Long fingers rubbed and grabbed at his muscles, tracing the defined lines, Sherlock stopping the lathe his tongue over his favorite places as he maddeningly wandered down John's stomach, past his navel. John dragged his fingers through the riot of wild curls on Sherlock's head, as a hot wet mouth slipped over the head of his cock. Sherlock's hands spread his thighs wider, and John cried out, spine bowing, as Sherlock swallowed the whole of him. On deep swallow, no hesitation, and John was nudging at the back of his throat.

Sherlock sucked, his tongue writhing against the hard cock in his mouth, as he came back up. Sherlock stopped, holding the throbbing head in his mouth, and John cried out in protest, needing Sherlock to keep going. John lifted his head, and their gazes locked, even in the darkness. Sherlock was waiting for this; he sucked his cock back in, the pressure intense, and it took all John's control not to close his eyes. Sherlock drove him hard, mouth demanding he respond, louder cries torn from him with each swallow, every flick of his tongue.

John was vibrating in every muscle, his bones threatening to shatter, skin on fire. He was close to coming, so close, and one hand held Sherlock's hair in a death grip as the other tore at the sheets. Sherlock was moving faster, his rhythm devastating. John was calling out, begging, Sherlock driving him to edge of orgasm, fast and hard.

"Sherlock!" John screamed, and he ripped his hand away from Sherlock's head, fearing he'd hurt Sherlock as he came. His climax exploded from his core, pleasure tearing free from every cell, muscles snapping taut. His eyes slammed shut, tears running from under the lids, and he called out over and over as Sherlock swallowed every thick drop.

John sobbed into his arm, crying in truth, his body exploded into pieces across the whole of Westminster. Sherlock released him from the devious torture of his mouth, and kissed his way back up John's body.

Sherlock paused briefly, and leaned to the side. John heard a drawer opening, then Sherlock was back on top of him. Sherlock snuck a hand between his quivering thighs, and John jumped as a long lubricated finger pushed at his entrance. A heartbeat of pressure, and Sherlock slid his finger in deep.

"I want you, John." Sherlock whispered in his ear, lips brushing against the lobe, and John shivered in response. "I'm going to take you now."

John was weak as a kitten, his body pliant under the man working him with his finger, his lips dropping small kisses over his face and neck. The brutal devastator of a few minutes ago was gone; Sherlock changed in a mercurial moment, a tender lover now. John sighed, lifting his legs up as best he could, giving Sherlock better access to his ass.

Two fingers worked him now, stretching him open, slick from a copious amount of lubricant. John's body was stirring to life, his cock filling again as Sherlock sucked on his neck, those two long fingers driving deep. John moaned, and he shifted under Sherlock. He ran his hands down the younger man's back, nails drifting lightly over his smooth skin.

"Perfect…." Sherlock whispered, and he moved just enough so the head of his cock took the place of his fingers. Sherlock pushed in slowly, easing past the tight threshold, opening John with every thick inch. Sherlock grabbed John's legs, and rested his weight on the back of his thighs. This forced John open further, fully exposed, as Sherlock sank to the hilt inside of him.

John groaned, his brain incapable of thought. Only need, desire. His arms found themselves around Sherlock's neck, the taller man bracing himself above him on his elbows. John's mouth was captured by a deep kiss, not overpowering as it was before, but powerfully intimate as Sherlock began to move inside of him.

John was taken by talented mouth and ruthless cock, his lover sensuously dominating every inch of his body. Sherlock's pace was slow and deep, relentless, his weight holding John hostage beneath him. He would barely catch a breath before Sherlock took his lips again, tongue exploring every surface of his mouth. Sherlock gave him no chance to respond, his tongue and teeth thoroughly imprinting his need and lust.

John surrendered, willingly trusting Sherlock with his body, his pleasure, letting Sherlock take him as he pleased. John was hard again, fully aroused, eager gasps escaping from him in between gasps for air. John crossed his ankles behind Sherlock's lower back, holding his lover to him, the hard cock deep inside of him causing his body to quake with each thrust.

Sherlock knew the pace he needed to conquer John, and he used it without mercy on the man under him. John tore his mouth away, dragging deep for air, as Sherlock rode him. Sherlock grinned down at him, and John couldn't look away from his impossible eyes. John saw enough in the low light to see the grin on Sherlock's face, and John clenched his ass muscles. He caught Sherlock deep inside of him, and it was John's turn to grin as Sherlock finally moaned in pleasure. Sherlock didn't pause his thrusts, making John cry out under him.

Sherlock moved deeper, and changed his angle. John dissolved as the hard length inside of him took its path over his prostate, again and again.

"Sherlock, more…." John begged, his words weak as the thrusting broke his ability to speak. "Do it, make me come…"

Sherlock heard him, and obeyed. John saw a glimmer of intense concentration come over Sherlock's face just before John's eyes shut, impossible to keep them open under the onslaught he was experiencing.

Sherlock took him, long thick cock plunging deeply, the angle of his thrusts constantly riding over the soft gland, giving John an overload of pleasure. John keenly felt each thrust in and pull out; each swipe making him cry out against Sherlock's shoulder. John bit down, and Sherlock groaned as he did. John held on, with hands, teeth and legs, as Sherlock dragged them both to the precipice.

Sherlock's breathing was ragged, panting in John's ear, the thick length in him growing firmer, swelling. John ran his nails down Sherlock's back, scratching, begging wordlessly for Sherlock to push them both that last distance. He couldn't move his hips in the position Sherlock had him, but he could grip Sherlock tightly, where his lover moved within him. John clenched, hard, and didn't let up.

Sherlock shouted, and his pace became erratic. Sherlock took him fast and deep, and John shattered in his arms. It felt as if pieces of him were lodging about in the room, his lover, the bed underneath them, all vibrating together, connected by the insane release he was feeling. There was a humming in his ears; there was a resounding scream of pleasure flying free as he came. John erupted, his orgasm wet hot and liquid fire on his stomach, Sherlock's abdomen.

Sherlock stilled, a statue of perfection above him in the darkness. His lips were at John's ear, and John felt Sherlock come deeply inside of him as Sherlock whispered something to him.

"Always you, John….." Sherlock gasped, his own orgasm making his body shiver, "It will always be you….."

* * *

><p>Violet tugged one ear bud free, and listened intently. John's screams weren't audible this time, and she laughed quietly as she got up from bed. John was a screamer, and she usually slept with her ear buds in most nights. She didn't mind the sex, it was the volume that kept her up when they went at it.<p>

Violet changed quickly into her sleepwear, and wandered downstairs. Her computer and mobile were still on the couch, and she picked them up before turning back for her room. She cast a glance down the hall to the other bedroom, and figured they would both be sleeping in late in the morning. Violet ran back upstairs, body and mind awake after her brief respite.

Violet tossed the laptop on the bed, and pulled up the video feed of the man leaving the vial on Sherlock's chair. The camera hidden inside Billy's cranium gave her a very clear view of the man's face in the moonlight, and he wasn't anyone she'd seen before. Once morning rolled around, she'd run a face recog program on him, see what turned up.

Violet slid into bed, and stared at the ceiling. Dawn was hours away, and she should be sleeping, but her mind wouldn't let go. Too many things happened in the last few days, and she couldn't process any of it. Violet wiped a stray tear from her cheek, futilely wondering why she was crying.

She needed to have some fun. Dancing always cheered her up.

* * *

><p><strong>December 27<strong>**th****, Midday**

Violet rushed through the doors of her uncle's townhouse, ignoring the questions posed to her by the security detail. Sherlock was at her heels, and John called out apologies as the three of them all but ran down the hall to the bunker.

"Did he say why he was returning early?" Violet asked again for the millionth time, and Sherlock tossed her a shrug, obviously unconcerned that his elder brother left this morning for London, instead of later tonight. Mycroft and Lestrade and Anthea would be back within the next hour or so. Violet figured Mycroft had done it on purpose, to mess with Sherlock for ditching holiday week early.

They'd slept in later than Violet had wanted them too, all three of them exhausted from the return trip and being awake since Christmas morning. Violet had rolled out of bed at the insistence of her bladder, and when she saw the time, she'd freaked out, and stormed her uncle's door, banging until both men got up.

Violet beat Sherlock to the bunker door by inches, and she tossed him a grin as she slapped her hand on the palm scanner. The locks released, and she rushed in, heading for the station she 'borrowed' before they left. It was still under her control, and Violet slid into the seat. She'd done most of the work already, she just needed direct access now to the Clean Slate through MI6.

The room was empty, and Violet accessed the controls to the door, locking everyone out, disabling the cameras, so they'd have no witnesses, no one stumbling in uninvited.

Violet paused, her hands over the keyboard, and swiveled the chair around. John and Sherlock were staring at her, wondering what she was doing. She met John's gaze, then Sherlock's, and decided if she was going to love them, then that meant she would trust them too.

"What I'm about to do, what I'm about to show you, cannot, must not, ever be discussed again. To no one. Not even Mycroft, not even Lestrade or Molly. No one. I'm not talking about Clean Slate, either. That cat's outta the bag, has been for so long it's a legend and not fact to many people. I mean my password, my master key. No one, ever." Violet said, and she was never more serious in her whole life.

John nodded slowly, eyes wide at her demeanor. Sherlock dipped his head but once, his bright eyes curious. Violet swiveled back around, and hit Enter.

The largest screen above them stopped spinning **VH **across a black background, and a standard password popup appeared. At least it looked normal, boring, regular, seen it a thousand times.

Violet sucked in a deep breath, and leaned forward, so the nearest built in mic could clearly pick up her password. Violet whistled, loud and clear, and she watched the screen above as the password was registered, her tone matched. She whistled the Bach violin piece she always hummed, the one Sherlock played for her the day she saved his geeky butt in Trafalgar Square. Thin lines waved across the popup window, and the words **FIAT LUX **flashed once. She stopped whistling, and the Clean Slate program was accessible.

Violet caught Sherlock's massive grin from the corner of her eye, the man ridiculously pleased with himself. He knew the song she whistled, and John must have too, as he nudged Sherlock with an elbow.

Violet dived in, and prepped Clean Slate for activation. With one hand she pulled out her mobile, and dialed Mary. She threw it on Speaker, and let it ring out, echoing in the large room. Three rings in it was answered.

"Yes?" Mary asked cautiously.

"It's Violet. You in London?" She asked while working, nearly ready. Sherlock and John were shifting behind her, and she registered their curiosity and excitement.

"Yes, I am."

"When I tell you to, go to the nearest CCTV station, and be obvious about yourself. Wait until I tell you though, don't jump the gun. MI6 isn't the only agency to watch those feeds."

"You wish for Mary to expose herself, take such a risk?" Jaime Moriarty asked, her voice sharp and cold, and Violet paused with her fingers over the keys. She tossed the mobile a nervous glance, before continuing her work.

"Once I'm done, the CCTV's won't even be able to recognize her. Trust me… it was you who asked me to do this."

There was a pause, the sound of furtive whispering too low to discern.

"I trust you Violet. Tell me when. We aren't that far away from one where we're at now." Mary told her, and Violet sighed in relief. Having Jaime Moriarty pissed at her was a worse thought than sicko drug lords trying to buy her over the internet.

"Stay on the line, I'll tell you when. Start heading towards that station, and wait for my go."

Violet executed a command, and the numerous screens above the station she was at illuminated. Each screen held a portion of the global map, drawn in black and white, with red splotches across a vast portion of the map, hundreds of places, countries.

One monitor held a picture of Mary, a close-up of her face.

"Violet? What are we looking at?" John asked curiously, and Violet spared him a quick glance.

"Every red smudge, dot, line, blotch, whatever up there across the world is a place Mary has been. Where she grew up as a child, records of her previous existence. Her life as Amelia, as the Golden Girl for the CIA, her missions both on and off book. Her life as Mary Morstan, even her connection to you, John. Every picture that was ever taken, every voicemail, every digital smidge of thought or collection of banking information, social media, credit, medical, purchasing, every single digital proof of existence."

"We are all collected, stored, data-mined, and meta'ed to the millionth degree by the digital world we live in. No one, NO one is truly off grid, unless they've spent their lifetime in the Amazon and never seen anything beyond trees, or been dead for over a hundred years. But that's no safe guarantee, as so many physical pictures have been scanned for preservation in the last decade. Being dead isn't even a guarantee of anonymity. And I know for a fact that satellites have seen every human in the world currently alive at least once. No one is immune."

"If it exists in electronic form, Clean Slate has found it. And it will destroy every last shred of her existence."

Violet stood, and gestured to the maps above her. Mary's global reach was astounding, her career as an assassin having taken her to every country in the world. This one was a challenge, and Violet grinned. Clean Slate was up for the task. Violet never failed. She spoke to the women on the phone, and sent up a silent prayer she hadn't made a mistake anywhere in her code.

"Mary, this won't protect you from people who know your face, what you look like. If there are physical pictures out there of you, I can't stop people from carrying around a snapshot in their pocket. But I can prevent them from being utilized if they're scanned, and if someone tries to use a facial recog or tracker with a real photo. Same thing for physical files. I can stop the information from flowing once it's digitalized, and connected to a network influenced by Clean Slate. Nothing will get far, or exist for longer than a few minutes if that happens."

"I understand, Violet." Mary sounded hushed, excited, and nervous all in one. Violet grinned again, and looked over her shoulder at John.

"Watch John, watch the screens. Your baby momma is gonna disappear like magic."

John smiled at her, hands in his pocket, nervous himself. Violet saw Sherlock smirking at her, and she gave him a wink.

Violet hit Enter.

It began so slowly, on such a minuscule level, that it wasn't noticeable. John shuffled up next to her, and Violet sat back down, idly swiveling in her chair, unconcerned. John glared at the maps, and tossed her a look after a minute or so. She knew when he believed, when the program hit its stride, by the look on his face. Violet turned back around, and watched as the red was erased from the maps, in great fading patches.

Clean Slate was running through millions of pieces of data, and its speed increased as the data pool declined. Violet sighed, content to see her program fulfill its original purpose. At one point, Violet had wiped herself free from existence as well, and rewrote her history, her past. She kept her name, just reassigned a past, one free from memory and grief. She was a foolish heartbroken child when she did it, and she hadn't realized at the time that what she was trying to do couldn't be achieved by a program. Only time lessened grief.

It took some time, and John's face was a reward in itself. He was in total awe, staring up at the screens, and she patted him on the shoulder. It was almost over. Mary would be able to go for a stroll this evening, eat at restaurant, and hail a cab.

"Mary?" She asked softly, the line still open on the call.

"I'm here."

"Get ready to flash those pearly whites, chica. I'll tell you when."

"Understood."

Clean Slate was cycling down, the last few lines of data evaporating from the monitor in front of her. Finally, it was all gone, the maps above free of red. Only one digital picture of Mary remained in the world, the one that Clean Slate would use to verify its successful completion. It would keep the parameters of her facial structure and body, to prevent anyone from uploading a new photo, and that's it.

"Tell me what station you're at?" Violet asked.

Mary recited the address closet to the CCTV station she was near, and Violet accessed the live action video feeds. She popped the feeds up so John and Sherlock could see, and looked at the mobile.

"Now, Mary."

Violet looked up, watching with a very nervous John, and a fascinated Sherlock, as a small blonde haired woman dressed in black leather pants and a dark jumper melted out from the shadows of an alley. She walked freely onto a busy sidewalk, people walking around her, going about their lives, unaware of what just occurred. And that was for the best.

She gazed up, stared directly into the cameras. Mary smiled, her mobile pressed to her ear, and Violet grinned. The facial recog programs MI6 had been running for weeks skipped over Mary like she wasn't even there. No bleeps, no boxes, no alarms. Perfection.

"Mary Morstan no longer exists. Gratz babe, you're free." Violet said loudly, and she jumped up from her seat, wrapping her arms around a dumbstruck doctor.

Mary smiled wider, and laughed, the sound coming over the line.

"Thank you Violet. I owe you. We owe you."

"All you have to do is name the munchkin Violet, we'll be even!"

* * *

><p>Sherlock watched as Violet danced around in glee, John flabbergasted. Sherlock was happy for his lover and relieved that Mary was as safe as she could possibly be. Violet had done the impossible, and Sherlock was proud of her. John would be able to have his child in his life, and not suffer for missing out.<p>

Sherlock felt his pocket vibrate, and he pulled out his mobile. Mycroft.

**What is Violet doing in my bunker? She accessed the room. -MH**

**Violet solved the Mary issue. Tell your masters she's no longer a threat. –SH**

**I'll be home in twenty. Do not leave. –MH**

"So, I'm after catching a drug lord. John, shall we go?" Sherlock asked his lover, the doctor still celebrating, speaking to Mary over the phone. John gave him a smile, and handed the mobile back to Violet.

"Where we off to?" John asked as he came over, leaving Violet at the station.

"Scotland Yard. See what records of Woodley are out there. He's been arrested several times, some officers there must know where he hides out at. Man wasn't considerate enough to have his address in the book." Sherlock tossed Violet a smile, his niece staying behind in the bunker. She should be safe in here, with Mycroft nearly home. Only one person could get in here other than Mycroft, and she was too busy guarding Mary to bother the woman who saved her lover.

Violet waved at him, and she was whistling as Sherlock and John left. Sherlock grinned, hearing the Bach piece follow them out the bunker door. Violet could handle Mycroft just as well as anyone.

* * *

><p><strong>December 28<strong>**th****, London**

Greg pondered the boxes in front of him, his flat full of them. He had come over early that morning, eager to pack up this miserable excuse of a home and move in with his partner. Greg hadn't been expecting help, as no one else knew he was moving in with Mycroft but Anthea. She was at the townhouse, packing up her room to move out.

So having John show up twenty minutes prior was a surprise, but a welcome one. John said Sherlock had sent him over, as the detective didn't do 'moving duties'. Mycroft texted him to get everything important boxed, movers would be by that afternoon to pick it all up, the rest he could decide what to do with later. Greg figured Mycroft tried to order Sherlock to help, and that boiled down to John. Greg was putting most of it either in the trash bin, or donating it to charity. His personal belongings were already packed, his luggage full of clothing and immediately needed items.

"Greg!" John called from the front step, sticking his head back around the doorjamb. John adjusted the box of trash he was holding, and disappeared. "Someone here to see you!"

"Coming!" Greg forgot the box, and wondered who was here, moving to the door. Donovan said she'd be stopping by sometime today, to help with the move. Greg stopped in shock, mouth dropping open.

His father, Gavin Lestrade, hesitated just inside the front doorway. The door was open behind him, the cold winter air tunneling in the flat. He had a strange look to his face, a pained and frustrated look that Greg had never seen his father wear before. He father was tall as he, less hair, and with more of a gut. Still a formidable man, and strong, even with a bad heart and in his sixth decade.

"Dad?" Greg stammered, not expecting to see his father. He was suddenly nervous, and he slid his hands into his pockets. His heart hurt, and he felt his cheeks get red. He didn't drop his eyes though, knowing his father saw him packing up, moving out. He had nothing to hide, nothing of which to be ashamed. Mycroft was right, it was up to his father to decide whether or not he could live with this truth.

"You're… moving out?" Gavin asked, his stance a mirror of his son's. He looked around, eyes landing on Greg for a second before darting away, as if he couldn't stand to look at him long enough to make eye contact.

"Umm. Yeah. Moving in with Mycroft." Greg said softly, waiting. His father was never this…unassuming. This quiet.

"He your….." Gavin's voice stumbled, unable to say Mycroft's name, and he cleared his throat, "Your boyfriend?"

"Yeah, Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock Holmes' older brother."

"The crazy detective that gets you in trouble all the time? His brother?" Gavin's eyes widened, surprise in his voice.

"Yeah, that's Sherlock. But he's good at getting us right back out of trouble, same as Mycroft. He's a good man, Dad. Both of them are." Greg tried to assure his father, but he snapped his mouth shut as his father pinched the bridge of his nose, his face clearly saying he was too close to the edge to hear more.

"Son…" Gavin sighed, dropping his hand. Greg saw the first flash of anger, disappointment. His father was trying to hide it, but it was there. "Are you sure about this? About…. Making this kind of change?"

"I love him, Dad. I have for a long time." Greg said quietly, doing his best not to flinch as his father stepped closer. Memories of the harsh and vile words his father had shouted at him over the phone came back to haunt him, and he didn't trust his father's attempt to stay calm.

"Him? A man! Greg, what the hell happened? You got shot, and went insane. Mentally sound people don't wake up from a near death experience and suddenly decide to be gay!" Gavin was obviously attempting to maintain his calm, but Greg knew his father saw him flinch before. The old man hated that, hated that his kids automatically flinched away from him if he got too close, or moved too fast.

Old habits of frightened children, impossible to break. His father hadn't hit him in decades, not since he was a teenager, but his body remembered.

"I fell in love, Dad. That's what happened. Who cares if the person I love is a man? And no one 'decides to be gay.' It's either there all along in some form, to some degree, or it's not. I didn't decide to be gay. I love a man, and thankfully I want him that way, too. I'm happy." Greg said firmly, determined not to cave under the glare his old man sent him.

"Your mother and I think you need to see someone. The Yard has shrinks, doctors. Go see someone about this. It might be some weird case of PTSD or brain trauma." Gavin said, and Greg felt a rush of anger. His parents thought he was crazy.

_No fucking way. My parents think I'm gay because I'm crazy. Great._

"Dad, I saw a shrink while I was in the hospital, and I'm fine. I got a clean bill of health, mentally at least. There's nothing wrong with me." Greg did his best not to yell. His patience was escaping quickly, his own anger responding to his father's belligerence.

"There is something wrong with you! You're fucking a man, son! That's not natural! It's a sin, an abomination! No son of mine goes from straight to being a fucking shirt lifter queer without something being wrong!" Gavin didn't bother keeping his voice down, his volume loud, and anger, disgust laced every word.

"Get out, Dad. Now." Greg warned his father, fed up and sick to his stomach. "Leave!"

"I'm not letting you destroy your life, embarrass your mother and me, and let you ruin your career by letting you be a fucking faggot. Either you go see a shrink, or I'll take you there myself." Gavin warned his son, striding forward.

"No, Dad. I said leave!" Greg backed away from his father, but not fast enough. Gavin grabbed his arm in an iron grip, hand like a vice. Greg wasn't a kid anymore, and slipped free, the skin where his father gripped stinging as he did. Greg pushed his father off of him, and the old man stumbled back a step.

Greg tried to walk away, ignoring his father, the look of rage and shock on his face. Greg had never lifted a hand to his father, even on the old man's worst days, and Gavin wasn't able to tolerate it.

"No child of mine lifts a hand to his father! I'll not tolerate disrespect, especially from a queer!" Greg dodged the first blow, refusing to hit back, but he couldn't dodge the second. His father's fist caught him just below his right eye, throwing his head back, his shoulders slamming against the wall.

Greg saw the next blow coming, but it never landed. There was tan blur in front of his eyes, and suddenly his father was flat on his back, a very, very angry John Watson standing over him. Greg's face throbbed with agony, but he'd been in plenty of brawls, and shook off the pain. He'd have shiner for certain in the morning.

"A real man doesn't beat his own child." John growled to the shocked man at his feet, his hands curled into fists. "No father worth a damn strikes his child for being true to himself, or trying to defend himself. Get the fuck out of here, before I force Greg to arrest me for beating you senseless."

Gavin backed up, and slowly stood, his face raged out and unrecognizable. He made to go for John, but the wordless growl of ready challenge that rumbled out from the diminutive doctor stopped him in his tracks. Fear flicked across Gavin's features, the smaller man an unexpected threat. Violence and retribution was promised in every inch of the former military captain.

"Dad, please go. Now." Greg said quietly, still leaning against the wall where his father's blow landed him. He couldn't move, his heart breaking, embarrassment and shame and fear and total pain swamping him. His voice was steady, that's all he could hope for right now.

Gavin tossed him a look that clearly said it wasn't over, and Greg sighed. He didn't have the strength to convince his father he was happy, that he was right to be with the man he loved. Mycroft was always right, this time no different. His father would have to learn to live with it, or not at all.

John pointed to the door, and Gavin went, face red with humiliation and anger. John followed on his heels, damn near chasing the older man from the flat. Greg heard his father run down the front steps, and a car started a moment later. With a squeal of tires, Gavin Lestrade left his son heartsick and bruised, tears threatening to fall.

John was back in flash, concern and sympathy on his kind face. His hands, no longer curled into fists, reached up for Greg's face, turning his cheek to the light, gentle and offering compassion.

"I won't be stupid and ask if you're okay. I'll ask instead if you want me to call Mycroft." John said softly, his blue eyes clearly conveying that he thought Greg should say yes. "How's your side?"

"A little sore, but I'm fine. And no, I'll be okay. I think I'll just text the driver, go home early. I can pack this all up tomorrow. Got a few more days before my lease is out." Greg stepped away from the wall, John's hands dropping. John gave him a look, equally exasperated and sympathetic.

"You sure, mate? I got my highly expensive, totally amazing car with me, we can go for a drive before I take you home. Clear your head."

Greg gave him a small smile, before reaching for the duffel bag full of his clothing and important personal items. He slung it over his shoulder, the other hand pulling out his mobile and texting Mycroft's driver.

"Nah, I'll be okay. Just need a beer, some quiet time at home." Greg said, and waved John to the door. John sighed, but went, grabbing his coat and keys. "I like the car, Violet's a good niece to have."

"She's not my niece yet, but yeah, she's amazing." John said as they walked down the steps after Greg locked up the flat. Both men took the diversion of the car, which sat lurking like a sexy feline a few spots down on their side of the street. Greg blinked at the car, and turned to John.

"Not your niece _yet?"_

"Oops." John grinned at him, and rocked back on his heels a few times, eyes suddenly happy. "Asked Sherlock to marry me."

"Wow! That's great! I think." Greg's brows rose up, and he thought again about what John said. "Wait. You asked Sherlock Holmes to _marry_ you?!"

"Yeah, Christmas morning. And get that look off your face, I made him swear to think seriously about whether or not he wanted to do it, get married. I know what I'm doing." John assured him, and Greg felt like his day was stuck on a repeat of weird and wonderful, heartbreaking and fun.

"Well, congratulations. I hope you're both very happy together, no matter what our crazy detective says." Greg offered his hand, and John shook it, still grinning.

* * *

><p><strong>Same Day, London<strong>

Greg stepped through the front door of Mycroft's townhouse, resolutely holding his own bag, refusing to let the valet take it from him. He kept his face down, avoiding eye contact. He didn't want Mycroft hearing about his bruised face from someone other than him. No point in hiding it, he just didn't want Mycroft to get upset.

Greg walked to the stairs, not seeing Mycroft anywhere. He was probably downstairs in the bunker with Violet, trying to convince her to give him access to the Clean Slate program again, for the millionth time. They'd come back the day before to a bombshell of a revelation, Mary Morstan gone and in an unknown location, and Violet smug as cat in the cream for pulling off the most hacker-savvy move of the decade. (According to her, of course.) Mycroft was torn between being awed of Violet, and angry she'd used MI6 to erase Mary from existence. Not mad for long, though, as Violet had rather effectively solved Mycroft's problems concerning Mary, and gave Mary her freedom, and removed an angry pregnant woman from his house in the process.

Greg was glad he could manage the stairs now, albeit slowly and with care. His side was getting better and better each day, and his strength was returning quickly. He was pondering when he might be cleared to return to duty, Donovan anxious as he was for his return, as he walked through the door of Mycroft's room. Their room, now.

"Greg! I wasn't expecting you to be home so soon. How was the…" Mycroft asked him from beside the bed, where he was changing his shirt. Greg dropped his bag in surprise, facing Mycroft squarely.

Greg knew when Mycroft saw the swiftly spreading bruise on his face, the state of his clothes, the way he moved. Sherlock did the same thing, instantly deducing an event merely from tearing apart the clues a person carried with them, no matter how hard they tried to hide things.

Greg swore, not wanting to upset Mycroft, not wanting his pity. He sprinted for the adjoining bathroom, but Mycroft caught up to him at the doorway. Mycroft snuck in front of him, and cradled his face between his long fingered hands. His fingers were gentle, soothing, and Greg sighed. He was so tired.

"Who hit you?" Mycroft asked him, his voice a deep rumble, anger lacing the words. His hands were gentle, and examined his face much as John had earlier. Greg grimaced, and figured he might as well stop trying to pretend he would ever get anything past his lover.

"My dad."

Greg found himself trying not to smile, a perverse sense of hilarity making him think that Mycroft's face was funny in his disbelief. It was obvious from his lover's face that Mycroft was never hit as a child, and hearing that it was Greg's own father who hit him left him speechless. Not for long, but long enough.

"Your father hit you?" Mycroft was aghast, and slowly dropped his hands from his face, to hold Greg to his chest. "What the hell happened?"

Greg wrapped his arms around Mycroft's waist, squeezing the spymaster tightly. Mycroft snuggled up to him, their bodies not even separated by air. He sighed, and recounted the events earlier at his flat. Mycroft listened, one of his hands running soothingly through his hair.

Greg got the part when his father tried to force him to leave the flat with him, and Mycroft tensed. Greg kept talking, and it wasn't until he got the point where his father hit him that Mycroft really reacted. His lover was shaking from rage, his indignation obvious. Greg found himself feeling the tiniest bit better having Mycroft get angry, as if it validated some need in his heart. He could handle an angry Holmes, not a pitying one. Mycroft's anger made his shame and hurt begin to lessen, and he recalled how many times he thought about Mycroft during the whole debacle.

"I kept thinking about you. How you were right. That people will either accept this relationship, accept me, or not. I shouldn't worry about other people's bigotry." Greg whispered, and he buried his face in Mycroft's neck, breathing in his scent, the feel of his skin reassuring.

"Oh Gregory. I love you. I will always love you, no matter what. I'm here, at your side. Forever." Mycroft tipped his face up for a kiss, Greg sank into it, every soft glide of tongue and lips easing his hurt. Mycroft pulled back, and whispered over his lips. "I'm always right, too."

Greg laughed, and kissed Mycroft, pushing him back towards the bed. He had plans to show Mycroft just how much he loved him in return.

* * *

><p><strong>December 29<strong>**th****, London**

Sherlock threw the file at the wall, frustration pouring off him. John barely twitched, reading _The Guardian _in his chair beside the briskly burning fire. Papers exploded out from the folder, scattering across the floor.

"So, nothing in the records then?" John asked casually, and Sherlock tossed him a glare before throwing himself down in his own chair. John gave him a tiny hint of a smile over the top of the paper, and Sherlock groaned, half turned on, half annoyed.

"When do you go back to work again?" Sherlock complained, crossing his arms over his chest, feet refusing to stay still.

"After the New Year, I told you this already like five times. Want me to go back early? You were complaining about the lack of sex with me at work, so unless you changed your mind…" John teased him, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. John couldn't see him past the paper, so he felt safe doing that again.

"Nothing, John. Nothing to tie Woodley to the current influx of Winter's Night flooding London. And he lawyered up fast once he got back to London after the train station incident. Donovan says she can't get a warrant on my deductions, and the claims made by a clandestine mercenary working for a mysterious foreign agency. I can't even tell them that the soldier works for Moriarty, or Mycroft will freak. Everyone would freak, actually. Need proof." Sherlock scoffed, and grumbled to himself about idiot policewomen and stupid laws.

John dropped the paper, and Sherlock saw him staring at him with a silly grin on his face. He raised a brow in question, and Sherlock waited.

"Sherlock, love, you've never cared for the law in solving a case. Never. It's never stopped you. You're all about solving the case, the challenge, the problem resolved. Stop trying to impress me by playing by the rules, and stop Woodley. You'll have all the proof after the fact once the drug lord is in handcuffs."

Sherlock gaped at John, and his doctor dropped the paper to the floor. He reached out, and snagged Sherlock's hand, and yanked. Sherlock was pulled solidly from his chair, and into John's lap. John roped his arms tightly around his waist, and Sherlock grumbled about being manhandled, but settled in nicely. John's lap was a wonderful place to sit, and think.

"This is less about stopping Woodley, and more about you trying to prove something to me. I've seen your face the last few days, double checking that I'm seeing you trying to behave out in public, to be nice to the police, trying to work with them. Stop it. Be yourself, please." John ordered him, kissing that spot under his chin. Sherlock shivered, and leaned on John's shoulder.

"Is that what I've been doing?" Sherlock whispered.

"Yes. I want my mad detective please, not some poster boy for reform. You're doing this to prove to yourself that you're capable of being married, and trying to convince me too. Just be yourself, love. Do what you do best, and solve this. Find Woodley, stop the drugs, save the missing chemist, keep Violet safe, and give Bear back to little Victor."

"The dog might be a deal breaker, John." Sherlock mused, and John laughed.

"We'll talk about it. You can't hide the dog at your parents' house forever."

"Not forever, just ten or fifteen years, whatever his lifetime may be." Sherlock quipped, and John nipped at his neck, making Sherlock get very interested in where he was sitting. John felt great underneath him.

He pulled out his mobile, and while nibbling on John's hard jaw, he texted his Homeless Network contacts, sending them after Woodley, and every scrap of information they could find. John was right, time to play dirty.

Sherlock was sucking on the salty skin behind John's ear when they heard the snapping of high heels on the staircase. Violet stepped in the room, and John stiffened under him, surprised. Violet was in a very short, very thin, very revealing silver mini dress, with three inch high heels that made her legs look way too long. Sherlock frowned, and glared at his niece.

"And you're off to go where…?" Sherlock grumbled, thinking he wasn't going to like the answer. Violet had been off color since returning to London, restless and almost sad, even with releasing Mary from her troubles.

"I'm going out, new club opened up a few weeks ago. I'm going to go check it out. _Sinful Vices_." Violet said calmly, and she grabbed her coat from the hook on the back of the door. Violet snickered, and grabbed Sherlock's scarf too, wrapping it around her neck. "I haven't had any fun for too long. Too much hacking, not enough dancing."

"A drug lord is trying to kidnap you, Violet." John said from under Sherlock.

"Mycroft is having me shadowed by five guards all the time, along with some off duty officers moonlighting from the Yard. And… Anthea is going with me. I'll be okay." Violet said, playing with the ends of Sherlock's scarf. "You two could get dressed and come with us. You still owe me a night out dancing, Sherlock."

"I thought you two broke it off?" John risked asking.

"Yeah we did. But we both need some cheering up, so clubbing it is. You two gonna trust Mycroft's goon squad to keep me safe, or you gonna come along?"

Sherlock leapt from the chair, and tugged John to his feet. He dragged John down the hall, his doctor complaining. Violet laughed.

"You've got fifteen minutes until Mycroft's car gets here! And you better come outta there looking too sexy to be my uncles!"

* * *

><p>Violet snickered, the sight of John in club clothing enough to make anyone laugh. He looked so uncomfortable. Sherlock had midnight black slacks on, a shiny black leather belt with a sparkling silver belt buckle, and a black silk shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. His hair was doing this thing that was screaming 'I just had amazing sex, and I'll be doing that again.' He looked astonishingly good, and Violet looked back at John. The poor doctor just looked silly wearing his black pants and thin black t-shirt. Silly and cold. It was dark in most clubs, and everyone either drunk or high. No one would care.<p>

Anthea sat at her side, quiet, and looking lovely. The car was dark, but Anthea shined in the shadows, her dark blue mini a match for Violet's silver one. Accidentally dressing alike, but still looking good. Violet couldn't stop herself from looking at her every few seconds.

"Seriously? Dancing?" John groaned for the fifth time, not at all excited about going to a club. "I'm ten years past this sort of thing, all three of you are making me feel old."

"Sexy older doctor dating the hot, innocent younger man, oohhh that's a romance novel right there." Violet whispered loudly, winking at John as he blushed. Sherlock laughed, his deep rumble filling the car with the pleasant sound.

The club wasn't far from the warehouse district by the river, a large building with three levels. Violet stepped out, the valet opening the door for her, Anthea following. They had VIP passes, courtesy of Violet hacking her way in, and the girls waited for John and Sherlock to get out of the car. Violet led the way down the red carpet, the sound of loud music muffled by the red and black doors. They passed the line of people, and Violet flashed her passes. The door guard opened the rope line, and the door, and Violet stepped into the club.

* * *

><p>Peter blinked in astonishment at the tall slim brunette woman, standing with a group of people just inside the door. She was a dead ringer for Woodley's obsession, and he had a clear view of her from the bar. He was close enough that when she turned her head to talk to a woman in a dark blue dress he saw her eyes. Purple, so intensely vibrant they couldn't possibly be real.<p>

Peter dropped the crate of vodka, and sprinted through the service door beside the bar. He ran for the private staircase in the back of the building, taking the steps as fast as he could. He ran up the three flights, to the top level, where a private office overlooked the dance floor, the bars, and VIP lounges.

Peter burst through the door, interrupting his master as the big man snorted a line of white powder off the breast of a very drunk, and very naked woman. Woodley got a nasty, enraged expression, but Peter ran to the wall sized one way glass panel, and pointed down to the dance floor. He had no breath to vocalize what he wanted Woodley to see. Woodley got up, spilling the naked woman to the floor. He stalked over to the glass wall, and looked down to where Peter was pointing.

Peter felt sick to his stomach at the incomprehensible look of glee that came over his master's features. Woodley stepped closer to the glass, so close he was nearly touching it. The young woman that held his attention was dancing in the middle of the club, seducing everyone around her as she moved to the beat. She was like bottled lightning, the silver dress she wore catching the colored lights and reflecting them back out. She was beautiful, and even Peter felt a long forgotten part of his anatomy stir at the sight she made.

Violet Hunter just walked into the lion's den. _Sinful Vices_ was owned by John Woodley, Master Chemist of London, and she was losing her freedom with every sexy step she took across the dance floor.


	52. For Love, and Duty

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. He's got me, though.**

**WARNING: Heartbreak.**

**A/N: I recall a quote by Gandalf from the LotR movies. **

**"I will not say, do not weep, for not all tears are an evil."**

**-J.R.R Tolkien**

**Next chapter drops one week from now.**

* * *

><p><strong>C<strong>**hapter 52**

"_**For Love, and Duty"**_

**December 29****th****, Late Evening, London**

Violet handed over her coat to the attendant, letting John get her claim ticket. The beat caught and held her attention, her foot tapping along to the loud music.

The club was large, three levels of techno and rave, old school melodrama with the smoke and the leather and black marble. Red highlights in leather and flame designs covered the walls and the booths around the dance floor. The DJ booth was up on the second level balcony, hanging partially out over the dance floor, along with what appeared to be VIP lounges and drink service booths. The dance floor was the entire bottom floor, surrounded on two sides by wall length bars.

The place was packed, full of people dancing, drinking and getting high. Though most of them looked to be spazzing out on some good shit, and not actually dancing. It was place of careless abandon, a place to dump the bullshit and misery of the daily grind, get crazy, and be irresponsible. Violet's kind of place, and she felt a small tendril of delight creep out to tease her lips into a smile.

_Dance clubs are the same around the globe. Reminds me of the New York City club scene. Whole bunch of fun and crazy._

Violet looked at the heartbreaker at her side, and grabbed her hand. Anthea was too pretty to be sad, and Violet refused to feel the same. "Dance with me, beautiful," she whispered in Anthea's ear, and the music called her out to the floor.

* * *

><p><strong>Previously that afternoon…<strong>

Anthea let the lid snap shut on her last suitcase, and she straightened. She pulled in a deep breath, and forced herself to look at the room she'd called home for five years.

Same king size four poster bed, the armoire and wardrobe standing where they'd been since Mycroft ordered them for her all those years ago. He hadn't said a word to her, sending for the pieces because he wanted to, giving her more space for her belongings. He would do that, randomly getting her small things that over the years that transformed her small bedroom with the attached bath from a suite in someone else's house in to her home.

She'd already found a flat close to Headquarters, and her new boss wasn't expecting her to report for a few days' time, to discuss her 'future'. The tone of the section chief's voice was diffident when he'd called to accept her transfer, and he made certain to let her know she was on her own timetable when it came to work.

Anthea knew what that meant, really. Mycroft throwing his weight around. She didn't mind, not one bit. She had been by the Iceman's side for half a decade, and she was having trouble trying to wrap her mind around working with someone in a lesser position.

Anthea felt a buzzing on her hip, and reached down for her mobile. Violet.

**I can't do this anymore. Being so fucking sad. Come dancing with me tonight. –VH**

Anthea bit her lip, hard, and sat on the edge of the bed. She thought for a moment, wondering what she should do. The issue wasn't resolved; she still loved this girl's uncle, far more than she should. Yet Violet was too full of life, passion, to resist. She made even depression seem like fun. Maybe she was exactly what Anthea needed.

**Will need to bring guards. Where to? –A**

**Place called **_**Sinful Vices.**_** I found VIP passes. Come with me, 'Thea. –VH**

**I will. I'll bring the limo. –A**

**Thanks, babe. –VH**

* * *

><p><strong>Now….<strong>

Woodley leaned against the glass wall of his office, watching the woman in the silver mini tear up the dance floor below, another woman in dark blue dancing beside her. Both women moved together, sex on heels. He felt himself getting hard just watching, as the woman in blue spun his obsession, catching her in an embrace that left little to the imagination…..they were lovers. The pair danced, each one so focused on the other that they were the best out there, making everyone else on the floor look second class.

"Peter," he growled out to his servant, the man still cowering beside him. "Get the car ready, and alert the warehouse guards. And clear the back alley and the service hall. We'll be having a new guest after tonight."

He narrowed his gaze, and saw through a break in the smoke the arrogant features of the bitch from the train, the one who embarrassed him in the bar car. Rage pooled in his gut, and he heard the rush of blood in his ears. A red haze of anger clouded his vision, and he ran a shaking hand down the glass wall. The desire to run down there and tear her apart limb from limb was nearly overwhelming.

_I made that bitch a promise on the train. I cover my IOU's._

* * *

><p>Sherlock watched his niece and her estranged lover sway together to the fast beat, owning the dance floor. Violet was exceptional. She always was at dancing, or anything else really. It was hard to find something a Holmes couldn't excel at if they put effort behind it. She flashed like lightning in the lasers and fake smoke, Anthea a spark of blue fire in the shadows at her side.<p>

"Sherlock, I'm seriously out of my element here." John told him, having to practically yell in his ear to be heard. "I'm going to the bar. At least I know how to drink."

John stepped away, heading for the nearest bar, but the music, for all its simplistic beat and repetitive melodies, was making the detective want to move. Sherlock reached out, and grabbed John by the wrist, spinning him back. The smaller man came at him, landing against his chest with a harsh 'oomph'. Sherlock held him tightly, and took his mouth, sweeping his tongue deeply into the other man's mouth. He kissed John until the older man stopped thinking, and Sherlock began to move them both to the seductive beat.

Sherlock kissed John, and the doctor raised his arms, kissing him back now in a fight for dominance, and he clung to Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock growled in triumph, and didn't stop kissing his lover until they were surrounded by the riot of moving bodies on the dance floor. Sherlock started to dance in earnest, distracting John with teeth and tongue, while his hands rested on John's hips, moving his lover's body to the beat. He led John, the other man giving him control without thinking about it, and Sherlock had John dancing faster than any alcoholic drink could have done.

Sherlock lifted his head, and let a wicked grin grow on his lips at the sight of the heavily aroused man in his arms. John was moving with him, too turned on to want more that a hairsbreadth of space between their bodies. The beat was seductive, full of sex with a nearly violent edge, and couples, even trios, packed the dance floor, the air heavy with desire and need.

Sherlock didn't give John time to think, to be embarrassed. He teased and tormented, swaying them together, and Sherlock led John through the throng. Whenever John would falter, start to notice they were dancing, glued together in a most indecent manner in public, Sherlock would pull him close, and kiss those thoughts away. Hips rubbing, arousals sliding over each other, strong thighs touching with each step they took, Sherlock and John danced unnoticed among the teeming mass of animalistic passion.

And Sherlock loved every second. And he made sure John did, too.

* * *

><p><strong>Previously…<strong>

Anthea tugged at the hem of her blue dress, making sure her garter straps weren't showing beyond an occasional flirty flash. The right combination of naughty vixen and glam dancer reflected back at her, and Anthea spun, getting a good look. Her hair was up in a messy Grecian style, tendrils escaping. Good for dancing, it kept the hair off her neck and shoulders.

Anthea picked up her mobile, and frowned. Her latest assistant candidate for Mycroft just bowed out, and she figured it was because of what, or rather who, the position required. Not many people out there, even veteran field agents, could stomach the thought of being the Iceman's personal go-to person. Anthea saw past the smokescreen to the good man underneath, but no one else did. Mycroft played the role of spymaster and Iceman far too well sometimes.

Anthea sighed, and grabbed her short coat, throwing it over her arm before stepping out the door of the room that would only be hers for a couple more days. She meant what she promised earlier. She wouldn't leave Mycroft without an assistant. She would find someone brave enough to take the job, and smart enough to survive Mycroft. He didn't suffer 'goldfish', and unfortunately, most of their cohorts fit that description.

Anthea strode down the hall, the limo and the additional security she'd arranged earlier already waiting at the curb. She made it halfway down the stairs before she saw Greg and Mycroft at the door, the DI presumably just returning from his own flat. His face was bruised from the altercation with his father, but not badly. The elder Lestrade didn't have time to do much before the admirable Doctor Watson saved the day. John was good at that, saving the day.

Both men stopped talking, and looked up, to where she was standing. Anthea met dark green and brown eyes, and saw the unease. She saw pain in both, more in Mycroft's green than in Greg's dark brown. In his she saw regret, and a desire to protect the new love he had. She didn't blame him one bit, and she liked the down to earth DI from Scotland Yard. If she were in his position, she would feel the same. He was a good man, and she knew, without any doubt, that he wasn't pushing Mycroft to get rid of her. Leaving was her choice, her idea, and she believed it to be the right one.

Mycroft took in her short, body hugging deep blue dress, running from her deliberate messy hair, to her bare shoulders, the low neckline, the very revealing hemline, all the way down to her black high heels. Greg looked too, and Anthea felt her first real smile in days break free. Men were men, no matter where their hearts may lay.

She slowly took the remaining steps, neither man speaking, and she put a little extra swing into her stride as she walked across the foyer.

"You look great, 'Thea." Greg said, coughing a little into his hand. His eyes were sparkling, and if anything from his reaction, she knew she looked better than great.

"Thank you, Greg. Very sweet of you," she said, happy to get the compliment. He was a good man. Mycroft was lucky to have him.

She went to put on her coat, but Mycroft stepped up, and took it from her. She met his eyes for a silent moment, before letting him help her into it. She saw the meaningful look that passed between the two men, and Greg wandered away, deeper down the hall. She turned, and wondered why Greg left, and tugged her coat tighter. It was if Greg was leaving the two of them alone on purpose….…..

"Anthea."

She looked up, and was transfixed by the powerful emotions swirling in his deep green eyes. He was close, so near she felt the heat from his body. She couldn't help the shiver that spread from her core out to her extremities, and she couldn't stop the deep aching pain that throbbed in time with her heartbeat. She loved him too much to be this close.

Anthea went to step back, but he stopped her. His long fingers lightly touched her cheek, his fingertips shutting down her ability to move. She couldn't look away from him.

"Are you packed?" He asked softly, and she had the feeling he was going to ask something else, and changed his mind. There was something he wanted to say, but couldn't.

"Yes… I'll be out of here in a few days. Waiting on my new flat to be cleaned, and I haven't found you a new assistant yet." Anthea responded, whispering, his fingers still touching her face. "Won't be long."

Mycroft moved closer, a tiny half step, and his fingers touched the hair at her temple, and next to her ear. She fought off the urge to turn her face into his palm, to feel more of his skin on hers. She wouldn't, couldn't, no matter how badly she wanted too.

"Anthea…. Are you sure this is necessary?" Mycroft sounded so sad, heartbroken, and his voice held a pleading edge to it she'd never heard before.

Anthea tipped back her head, and realized he was close enough to kiss. All she had to do was lift up on her toes, and brush her lips to his. The image was so powerful she struggled to remember why she shouldn't do that. It was the intense pain and longing that snapped her back to herself, his fingers burning hot on her skin.

"Yes, Mycroft," she said to him, and she heard the unseen tears in her words. "Don't make me break, please. I can't deny you anything, don't ask me to stay."

"You would. Stay, I mean. If I asked."

"Yes. Without hesitation." She swore to him, a part of her screaming in pointless hope that he would ask, and remove the burden of choice from her shoulders. Another part, the wiser part, was praying he wouldn't. That he would let her go. "I love you too much, please let me go. I can't be here, and watch you fashion a life with Greg, with me forever at your side, and yet always on the outside of your heart. I could survive it before, before him, but I had some hope then. I have none now."

Anthea let the lone tear fall, unable to stop her body's betrayal. He saw it, and he caught her tear with a finger, wiping it away. He was so gentle, and her body shook. The crack in her heart shattered, and Anthea tore herself away. She walked to the door, a hand on the wooden panel, and dropped her head.

She fought to maintain control, and it took every shred of her will not to turn around, not to run to him, and beg him to let her live out her days at his side. He had her love, her loyalty, he always would. But she couldn't give him her soul, and survive.

"I'm going out tonight, Mycroft, with Violet. Have a good evening." She said, proud her words came out stronger than she felt. "I'll be home tomorrow, I promise. For a few more days at least."

She heard him shifting on his feet behind her, and she hoped he wouldn't come to her. She wouldn't be able to stop her reaction, kept herself off of him. She grabbed the handle, and opened the door a few inches. The cold snapped through the small space, and helped her focus on something other than the man she loved.

"Goodbye, Anthea. I'll see you tomorrow, then." Mycroft whispered, and she refused to turn around. She heard the tears, the ones he would never let fall. She pulled the door open all the way, and saw the limo waiting. Violet would be waiting for her at Baker Street.

She stepped out, and let the guard outside the door shut it for her. The great black wood and iron door shut with a finality that made her bones hurt, and Anthea took the steps down to the limo. She felt different. Empty. As if all the light was gone from her life, and she was nothing but a shell of her former self.

* * *

><p><strong>Previously…<strong>

Greg watched the scene in the foyer play out, and he found himself feeling wretched. The shadows in the darker hall were deep enough for him to watch and not be seen. He trusted them both, and he wouldn't be bothered over much if Mycroft did kiss Anthea. It looked to him like it would go that way for a minute, and wondered why she pulled away. Surely she wanted to kiss him, and they both needed to answer the question of how it would feel if they gave in, if only for the sake of their combined sanity.

He felt wretched not because Mycroft so obviously loved Anthea, and was showing it, but because she was a remarkable woman who deserved to be loved. She deserved every ounce of love a man could give her, and Mycroft was a man who could love her unconditionally, if his heart was free.

They were well matched. Both intelligent, strong, fiercely patriotic, and highly dedicated. She knew what he needed, and he trusted her to a degree Greg knew he trusted no other. They'd been a pair for so long that Greg worried that Mycroft wouldn't be able to adapt to her absence. She would excel no matter where she went, but Mycroft…. His spymaster had so few totally trustworthy people in his life, and he needed every one of them.

Greg worried that Mycroft wouldn't survive losing Anthea, not again. She may not be presumed dead this time, but she would be gone all the same. Almost as far, forever out of reach.

* * *

><p><strong>Now…<strong>

Clay stepped in the front door of his mistress's cottage, listening carefully. He heard movement in the back room, and tossed his keys into the small tray next to the door as he shut it, not bothering being quiet. He made noise on purpose, knowing that trying to be quiet would earn him a bullet. Nothing makes an assassin more trigger happy than a fellow killer trying to be sneaky.

"Enjoy your holiday?" It was Miss Morstan, dressed in dark jeans and a black jumper. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her deep blue eyes glittering in the low lights.

"I did, thank you ma'am. I assume you enjoyed yours?" Clay tugged off his coat, and draped it over the back of the nearest chair. He was back early, but he had nothing to do other than watch over his mistress and her lover, so he stopped wasting his days moping around the English countryside and came home. He could have gone and spied on the detective, but that man would spot him easily in the city, he was far too attuned to being watched here, and Clay wouldn't be able to pull it off. He had been tempted though, very tempted.

"We both did, yes. A lot has happened since The Vicar died."

He looked around, and saw signs of packing. Most of Jaime's weapons, and his, were stored away, an essential few left out on the table. Clay craned his neck, and saw his bags already packed and waiting on the bed. He felt his brows raise up, and looked back at the blonde assassin in question.

"Don't worry, you aren't being abandoned. She's been quite adamant that you come along," Mary reassured him, smiling at his puzzled expression. "She packed your belongings first."

"Lady M packed for me? Oh." Clay was flummoxed, and stood staring at the blonde woman, who was grinning at him in a devious manner. "Where we going?"

"Home, Clay. We are going home." Jaime called out from the rear of the hall, her voice ringing with happiness. She strode into the room, stopping beside Mary. "We leave tomorrow. I've already sent word ahead, they are preparing for our arrival."

Clay found himself grinning, his heart overwhelmed by the happiness and joy, the hope on his lady's face. He hadn't seen her this happy since before her brother died. In fact, he'd never seen her quite like this before. Even with James she'd held a manic edge to every move and word. She was different now, better. The madness was quiet.

"I can't wait." Clay said, trying not to choke on the lump in his throat. Crying in front of her for the second time just wouldn't do. "I haven't been to the castle in years."

* * *

><p><strong>Now…<strong>

John was seduced, swept under Sherlock's spell. The detective moved against him like sin and sex, the heat between them hotter than the press of bodies all around. Sherlock led him, and he stepped with him, the steps instinctual and erotic. He stopped caring ages ago that he was dancing in a very scandalous manner with his lover. From the glimpses he got of the others on the floor, they were fairly tame in their moves.

Sherlock was different man. He was nothing but the movement, the deep encompassing need to mate, and John was addicted. Sherlock broke him down and made him nothing but urgent need, and the way the detective moved on him, around him, and with him made it obvious that Sherlock knew it too.

Gone was the analytical machine, the mercurial best friend, the petulant child, the hard-nosed detective. In his place was a man who wanted one thing, and he wanted John Watson.

John succumbed, and let Sherlock do what he wanted, what he needed, because every damn move the younger man made was what he needed too. John kissed Sherlock, and ran his hands all over his torso, his hips, and flirted with his belt. He didn't go farther south, but _dear God _did he want too….

Sherlock responded, plastering his whole length to John, hands gripping his hips, holding them tightly together, rubbing and caressing. The club was alive around them, and the sensory overload spurred them on. John caught the faintest hint of flowers, sweet and cloying, until he was lost in the man who seduced him so powerfully.

Fire spread from the back of his neck, a new place affected deeply by the man he loved. Sherlock wasn't even touching him there, but John found himself feeling fucking amazing with the sensations flowing from the cool flames licking his skin.

* * *

><p><strong>Now...<strong>

Sherlock lifted his head from John's tempting kiss, his mind determined to pay attention to something other than John. He caught it again, the scent of flowers, intensely sweet. Sherlock moved John, spinning the doctor around, his ass pressed tightly to Sherlock's groin, and he distracted his doctor with his hips and hands. John moaned, and leaned back on him, his head resting on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock smelled it again, very strong. He dipped his head, and was about to kiss John's neck, when he saw the shiny film on his doctor's skin.

_Winter's Night. Someone just drugged John._

* * *

><p><strong>Now...<strong>

Violet danced with Anthea, the other woman matching her step for step. Violet found she was relaxing, her worries falling away. Anthea's mood was lifting too, and she saw a glimmer of enjoyment in her deep green eyes as they danced.

Violet and Anthea twirled and swayed, dresses catching the lights and lasers. They danced under the DJ booth, the smoke the thickest there. Violet saw the glances from men and women alike, and they garnered an adoring fan club that danced around them. Violet laughed, the music too loud to be heard, but she saw the answering smile on Anthea's face. Violet couldn't resist, and pulled Anthea to her side.

Anthea surprised her, and moved in even closer. She ran her hands up and down Violet's sides, enticing and teasing. Violet grinned, and matched her move for move. She daren't let herself hope, to read into this more than was wise. They both loved to dance, and the music was enough trick the senses into thinking things were more than they really were.

Tomorrow would come, and Anthea would still love Mycroft. The sun would rise, and Violet would still be alone. Yet Violet gave in, and let the dream of a love that might have been settle her doubts, shape her actions. Tonight they could forget their heartache, the pain, and the bitter sting of loss. Tonight there was just the music and dance, and the sweet scent of lilac and smoke.

And she would take one step closer to freeing herself from a past filled with pain and sorrow. Woodley was going to regret every second of his life he ever spent thinking about her. He was the last annoyance in her way before she was free.

She lost track of how long they danced, but it was long enough for Violet to want a drink. Pulling back, she caught Thea's hand and tugged her from the floor, to one of the bars along the wall.

Anthea held her hand, and they went to the bar. Violet let Anthea order, and she looked around for her uncles. Violet started to laugh in delight when she found them, in the thickest populated area of the dance floor. Sherlock was showing John some serious moves, and Violet had the sneaking suspicion John was going to be horribly embarrassed in the morning. The two men weaved and snaked around each other like they were alone, and Sherlock controlled every step. John was putty in his hands, and Violet figured she should stop watching, considering one was related to her and all, but it was just too much fun.

She watched Sherlock and John until the crowd swallowed them up, and Violet turned back to the bar. Anthea held out her drink, and she gulped down the mojito like it was water. Anthea was waiting on her drink, the bar constantly barraged by people streaming back and forth between the dance floor and the bar, in search of drinks. And something else.

Violet saw it from the corner of her eye, and pretended not to notice anything. She watched as the bartender nearest the wall slipped a small glass tube about the size of a small thumb drive to a patron in exchange for cash. The bartender filled a drink order next, then as easy as breathing, pulled out another tiny vial from a small fridge under the bar top. She saw dozens of vials inside, in different sizes, ranging from even smaller vials the size of a thimble, to shot glass sized bottles. The contents glittered like diamonds, and Violet knew her trackers had found the right bar. Woodley owned this place, and was using it to push Winter's Night.

Violet reached out, and put down her drink. She tapped Thea's elbow, and when the other woman turned to her, swept her hand into her dark hair, pulling her in close. Violet kissed her, capturing her mouth in the kiss that Violet felt down to her toes. Anthea stilled, startled, and Violet moved in closer, both hands now holding her still for her kiss.

She wasn't expecting a response, but she got one anyway. Anthea kissed her back, just as passionately. She molded her luscious curves to Violet's, arms holding her back, tongues dancing together like they were back on that floor, following the beat. Violet let her kiss say everything she couldn't. That she would have been willing to be Thea's one and only, if they had only been given a chance. Fate was cruel, and brought them together too late for true love. Maybe in their next lives they might have a chance…

Anthea answered, and if a kiss could taste of yearning and frustrated hopes, then her kiss did for certain. Passion was there, and need. Flickering and dying, a brief chance of happiness in the tumult of their lives. Violet lost herself, forgetting where they were, and let this lovely woman distract her from what she was really doing here.

Anthea was the first to pull away, her gorgeous face flushed, green eyes alive with lust and something close to love. Violet cupped her face, and sighed. The music was too loud for Anthea to hear her, but she saw her expression clearly enough. Thea leaned in, and spoke in her ear.

"What is it, Vie?"

Violet wrapped her arms around Thea's neck, and buried her face in the soft hair by her ear.

"This is Woodley's club. He's selling Winter's Night here, through the bartenders."

To her credit, Anthea didn't react badly at all. She made it look like they were just making out, and ran her lips over Violet's ear. Violet didn't have to fake the shiver that ran across her skin at the sensual touch.

"Is that why you picked this place?"

"I wasn't sure until I saw the bartender make a deal. I hacked most of Woodley's financials early this morning, and found this club." Violet said, enjoying the way Thea felt in her arms. "None of you would let me come here to find out on my own in case I was right, so I staged a night out. Sherlock wasn't getting anywhere with the legal side of things, and neither was Scotland Yard. I decided to take care of Woodley myself. We got the just cause for the warrants. We can call the cops now, I saw the exchange. An anonymous tip about drug deals should get the cops here quick, especially if we call Donovan."

Anthea chuckled, and pulled back to give her a half-hearted glare. Violet couldn't stop her grin, and winked at the MI6 operative. Thea leaned back in, and kissed Violet just below her ear.

"I have all of Scotland Yard and MI6 on speed dial. My mobile is in my coat. Let's go get it, and shut this place down." Violet grinned as Thea whispered in her ear, and let Thea lead her away from the bar. "Woodley is going to be having a bad night."

* * *

><p><strong>Now...<strong>

Woodley watched the two women kiss at the bar, and he felt his arousal grow by the second. The small glass panel in the rear service door was large enough for him to see them clearly. Peter was sniveling at his side, the junkie twitching. He'd just returned from dispatching the detective and his gay lover, and Woodley had a feeling Peter had partaken of some of the product when he drugged his target.

"Make sure the car is ready, and the cameras are off in the rear alley." Woodley ordered Peter, and the junkie scurried away.

She was going to be his, the beautiful Violet Hunter. And her snobby bitch of a girlfriend was going to pay for her actions on the train.

Woodley's hand curled into a fist, unconsciously channeling his desire to beat the brunette in the blue dress senseless.

* * *

><p><strong>Now...<strong>

"John?" Sherlock called, shaking the doctor gently, then harder when all John could do was gasp and moan against him. John's deep blue eyes were foggy and blown wide, and his heart rate erratic. John was high, hit hard by a powerful dose of the hallucinogenic narcotic. The smear on his neck was thick, and more drugs were being absorbed into his system the longer it stayed on his skin. Sherlock searched through John's pockets for a handkerchief, cursing the man's tight trousers as he did.

He found one, glad his doctor was always so pragmatic when he left the flat, no matter where he was going. Sherlock wiped off the remaining gel, and tucked the offending cloth in his own pocket. John was still able to stand, and he seemed very interested in getting his hands on every inch of Sherlock's body. Sherlock eyed the crowd, but the chances of spotting John's attacker were very small.

John was intent on reducing Sherlock to a puddle of sexual need, but Sherlock left the haze of desire behind as he eyed the club. He saw Violet and Anthea at the bar, and his brows rose as he took in the two women snogging like they had no tomorrows left. Sherlock hefted John higher against his chest, and tried to dig his mobile from his pocket.

John seized once against him, and started to moan, airway sounding choked. John was hot to the touch, far too sweaty, and his muscles started to go limp. Sherlock gave up trying to reach for his mobile, and felt a frisson of terror run through his veins.

_He didn't get a tailored dose. He got too much. I didn't notice in time! John!_

Sherlock took all of John's weight, and dragged his lover through the crowd, heading for the restrooms. John was barely able to stand, and he couldn't find enough coordination to walk, much less move his feet. Sherlock blasted through the door of the gent's room, glad it was empty. The lights were bright and glaring in comparison to the deliberate shadows of the dance floor, and it let Sherlock see John's face.

His eyes were becoming red, bloodshot, and his lips were getting a bluish tinge to them, cheeks paling. John's hands were growing cold, while his core temperature rose. His circulation was shutting down in his extremities, shunting blood flow to the vital organs.

Sherlock laid John down on his back, and reached for his mobile. He stood as his fingers blindly dialed, and he turned the nearest faucet on full blast. The mobile rang out on Speaker, and Sherlock dropped it next to John as he grabbed handfuls of towels. He soaked them under the spray, the water cold, and he wiped at John's face, his neck, cleaning off the remaining drug.

"Emergency Services…." The line opened, and Sherlock wanted to scream in relief.

John wasn't responding. Sherlock felt his composure snap, an audible crack through the foundations of his mind palace as the horrible possibility of death entered his heart.

* * *

><p><strong>Now...<strong>

Violet held Thea's hand as they weaved their way through the throng of bodies, heading for the front door and the coat check station. No one but the attendant was at the door, everyone out where the fun was. Thea got her coat back, and fished out her mobile, flipping through her contacts. Violet would call, but Thea knew who was best to call and what to say, so she got bored waiting. Violet was looking over her shoulder, trying to spot Sherlock or John on the dance floor when it happened.

A large hand fell over her face, and a big arm roped around her waist. She lost her grip on Thea's hand the same moment she tried to draw in a breath to scream, but no air got past the hand covering her face.

She saw over the large handing holding her two men restraining Thea. They were both bodily picked up, and carried through the edges of the crowd towards a service entrance. Violet was kicking, clawing at the arms of the man who held her. Her heels made contact several times to her attacker's legs, and she heard grunts of pain from the man at her back. Her breath was running out, and Violet bit hard into the fingers covering her mouth. She got the taste of blood before the hand was jerked away, and she spit out a shred of flesh before she dragged in a deep lungful of air. Violet screamed, and threw her head back, the back of her skull connecting with the face of the man who carried her.

She heard cursing, and kept fighting. His hold on her was loosening, and she refused to give up. They burst through the service door next to the bar into the glare of a well-lit hallway and Violet screamed again before the door swung shut. No one out in the club heard, or cared. The music was loud, and most of the people here knew better than to get involved in what was going on, or were too high to care. They were being carried down a long hall, towards an exit that must lead to an alley or street. Violet scratched, ripping bloody grooves across the back of the hand that gripped her waist, and she moved her head away from the other hand that tried to cover her face again.

Violet kicked back, heel high and she lucked out, catching her assailant in the knee. He dropped her, screaming, and she kicked again, catching him in the chest as he fell to his knees. Violet turned back to Anthea and the two men holding her. She dashed forward, jumping on the back of one of the men holding Thea's arms. Getting Anthea free was the best option for them to escape, as the MI6 operative was well trained and capable of defending herself. Violet screamed in rage, dragging at the neck of the man she was attacking, and he let go of Thea's arm.

Anthea exploded into action, kneeing the remaining man holding her in the groin, punching him hard in the throat as he bent over, gagging. She spun on her heel, and Thea's other foot landed squarely in the stomach of the man Violet was trying to choke out. He doubled over, and Violet dropped off of him, darting to the side as Anthea dodged past his reaching hands. She slid inside his personal space, and elbowed him so hard in the face Violet saw an explosion of blood from the ruin of his nose.

"Run! Violet, move!" Anthea shouted to her, and she picked up her mobile from the floor as her other hand took Violet's. They ran back down the hall to the door that led to the club, past the man who had grabbed Violet, who was trying to regain his feet. They needed to make the dance floor, get to Sherlock and John and more witnesses.

Anthea was dialing with her other hand, still holding tight to Violet's hand. She put the mobile to her ear, and Violet could hear her calling Mycroft's name.

A giant blur of heavily muscled brute force barreled out from a recessed door in the hall, about five strides from the door to the club. Anthea was thrown bodily into the wall several feet off the ground, shrieking in surprise as she flew through the air. Her head hit the plaster with a solid thump, the mobile clattering under her as she fell to the tiles. Violet screamed, trying to rush to her side. Her shoulder was caught in an unrelenting grip, and Violet was spun around, and she found herself pinned to the wall above the stricken MI6 operative.

John Woodley held her with one hand, the giant man using no more effort than she would at swatting a fly. Her feet slowly left the floor as he lifted her against the wall, and Violet felt her mind go blank with terror at the disgusting look of enjoyment on his face. He saw her fear and it made him happy.

He pressed her so hard to the wall she struggled to breathe. Her chest couldn't expand enough to draw in enough air. She tore at his arm with her nails, but her fingers merely slid off the granite muscles under his silk shirt.

"I've got you now, Lovey."

* * *

><p><strong>Now...<strong>

Sherlock slapped John, hard, forcing him to stay conscious. He grabbed John by his collar, lifting his torso from the floor, and squeezed ice cold water from the soaked towels over his face. John sputtered, and he blinked at him, a vague hint of awareness coming back to his eyes. Sherlock was a chaotic storm of fear and sickening panic, watching his lover overdose on Winter's Night.

"John! Wake up! I called an ambulance, but I need you to stay awake!" Sherlock shook his doctor, and he breathed through his panic as John succumbed again to the drugs coursing through his system. That flash of self-awareness faded from his bloodshot eyes, and Sherlock screamed in his face. "John!"

Sherlock reached down to the floor, and dialed Mycroft, again, but his brother wasn't answering. Mycroft had to know that Sherlock and John were out with the girls, so he didn't know why Mycroft wouldn't be answering. Unless he was too busy with his lover to mind his mobile lighting up like a storm. He needed to alert the security teams to the fact that something was wrong, but he couldn't reach anyone, and he didn't have the number for the guards waiting outside the club. He had tried to call Violet, then Anthea, both with no success, and Mycroft wasn't answering.

Whatever the mix was for the dose they gave John, it was highly concentrated, and pushed him past the rabid dog stage of a bad high into the overdose part of dying. John was going to die if he didn't snap out of it, and soon.

"John, damn you, don't die on me!" Sherlock pulled back his hand, and slapped John again, so hard the doctor's head snapped to the side. He was pulling his hand back for another blow when John coughed, and blinked bloodshot eyes at him. John saw him, and recognized him, but he was going to fall under again any moment. "John, you must stay awake!"

Sherlock gave up on his brother, and called the one man guaranteed to get through to Mycroft. He dialed Lestrade, and hoped he wasn't too distracted by his brother to answer his damn mobile. Lestrade answered fast, as if his mobile were already in hand…

"Sherlock? What the hell is going on…?"

* * *

><p><strong>Now...<strong>

Greg moaned, hands clutching at Mycroft's silk tie. He rolled his hips, spreading his thighs wider, and Mycroft lowered himself between them. He felt their combined weight press him deeper into the soft cushions of the couch in Mycroft's room, and he concentrated on undoing the stubborn strip of cloth as Mycroft took his mouth again.

The kiss was scorching, wet, and deep. Mycroft curled his arms under Greg's shoulders, and tilted his head, delving deeper, tongues clashing. Greg rolled his hips again, and felt Mycroft's arousal rub along his own. Mycroft gasped, and groaned, thrusting his hips forward, leaving no space for air between them. He managed to get Mycroft's tie undone, and did his best to pull it off while Mycroft ravished his mouth.

Greg heard a buzzing noise, but was too engrossed in what Mycroft's tongue was doing to his to focus on it. The buzzing kept on, and finally Mycroft lifted his head with a curse, and looked to the coffee table next to the couch. Greg panted for air, and took his chance, latching on to Mycroft's neck and sucking on the salty skin under his ear. Mycroft groaned, eyes drifting shut halfway, and he lifted one arm out from under Greg. He reached for his mobile, which was still ringing.

Mycroft looked at the Caller ID, and sat up. He blinked, and turned to Greg. Greg stopped kissing his neck, and raised a brow in question. Mycroft mouthed 'sorry' to him, and answered it on Speaker.

"Mycroft!" Anthea screamed through the open line. She was out of breath, and sounded like she was running. "Mycroft!"

The spymaster launched from the couch, responding to the urgency in the unflappable operative's voice. Greg sat up, worried. Anthea never sounded worried, nor stressed. The scene earlier in the foyer was the most emotional he'd ever seen her get, and she hadn't even yelled, or really cried.

"Anthea? What's wrong?" Mycroft called out, one hand blindly reaching for Greg. He caught his spymaster's hand and clutched it.

Both men jerked as they heard Anthea cry out, and there was a violent crash of something that sounded like a person being thrown. Greg stood in a flash as they heard Violet scream over the still open line, and a struggle. They didn't hear Anthea again.

"I've got you now, lovey….." It was a deep rumble of aggression, and in a voice neither of them knew. They heard a gasp for air, and tiny whimper in a feminine voice before silence fell.

Mycroft was running, dragging Greg behind him, out his door to the stairs. Mycroft was shouting Anthea's name at the phone, but they got no response. The two men ran to the railing that over looked the foyer, and Mycroft's shouts drew the attention of the guards stationed below.

"There's been an attack on Anthea! Track her mobile, it's still active! Alert the security teams guarding her and my niece!" Mycroft shouted, and the two men below immediately began to speak on their radios. "Contact Scotland Yard and our informants, I want to know where John Woodley is now! Fuck the warrants!"

Greg felt his pocket vibrate the second before his own mobile started chiming at him. Greg dug at his pocket, one ear on the orders Mycroft was shouting to his men below, and the other on his own mobile. He finally yanked it out with one hand, the other still gripped tightly in Mycroft's shaking hand.

It was Sherlock. He answered it on Speaker, heart in his throat. This wasn't a coincidence.

"Sherlock? What the hell is going on…?" Greg asked as he opened the line, and he heard the detective on the other end of the line scream John's name.

"Lestrade, I need Mycroft now! We're at the club called _Sinful Vices _with Anthea and Violet. John's been drugged, and I can't reach the girls. I think we've been separated on purpose." Sherlock's voice faded out for a second, and Mycroft turned from the now silent mobile in his hand, to the chaos of agony in his little brother's voice. "John's overdosing! Goddammit John, please don't leave me alone!"

Mycroft jerked from his fear-induced trance at the name of the club, and shouted it down over the railing to his men.

"Hold on Sherlock, we've got help on the way." Greg reassured the detective, not certain Sherlock could hear him, the detective shouting to his doctor.

Sherlock was screaming John's name, the usually cold man shattered by the threat of his lover's death. Greg held Mycroft's hand so hard he lost feeling in his own fingers. Fear coiled in his gut, the thought of the ever-steady John Watson dying making him feel tilted on his axis. Anthea and Violet were in trouble, and Sherlock was helpless to save the man he loved. They were across the city, their family under threat, and they were forced to wait as others went to their aid.

Mycroft must have seen the frustration on his face, as they were suddenly running down the stairs, Mycroft shouting for his car to be brought around.

* * *

><p><strong>Now...<strong>

"I've got you now, Lovey." Woodley growled, and Violet felt tears escape and run down her cheeks. She was praying, silent screams in her head that she'd see her uncles running to the rescue. That Sherlock would know they needed him, and that John had his gun, and she'd get to watch Woodley die.

Anthea was limp, unmoving. The force with which she'd hit had broken the drywall, a huge crack running from the middle of the wall down to the floor. There was a dent where her head had hit the wall, and Violet strained in his grip, trying to see the woman on the floor, to see if she were okay.

Violet was jerked away from the wall, Woodley still holding her shoulder in one massive hand, and she was pulled back against his chest, her feet hanging above the floor. Her heels slipped off her feet, bouncing off the tiles next to Anthea's still form. Violet couldn't fight, the man who held her now stronger than the first one who'd grabbed her out front. Woodley didn't even acknowledge he held her other than his first words, and he was shouting orders at a pale twisted wreckage of a man.

Violet didn't realize she was calling Anthea's name until Woodley shook her, silencing her soft cries, easily holding her to his side a foot off the ground. Anthea was still, a ribbon of blood escaping from her mouth, her nose, her lovely brown hair sticking in the thin stream. Violet was sobbing, and she tried reaching out to the beautiful woman at her feet. Anthea's eyes were shut, her face pale, and Violet wanted to vomit from the sickening worry roiling in her gut.

She couldn't tell if Thea lived, but the way Woodley was ignoring her, the way the junkie didn't pay any attention to the motionless form at their feet made her hope fade away into black despair.

Violet groaned, any concern for her own welfare evaporated under the total certainty that Anthea, one of the bravest and truest people she'd ever met, was dead. Thrown like garbage by a man who saw her as nothing, and left on the floor like a thing, an object. She felt her soul freeze, her heart implode, and her mind faded out her surroundings.

She only saw the gracious and beautiful woman on the floor, in her gorgeous blue dress, who but for the blood, could've been sleeping. She didn't feel the arm around her waist, the cold air as the rear exit was opened. She felt nothing, heard nothing, as Woodley carried her down the hall. Violet kept Anthea in view as long as she could, craning her neck around past Woodley's shoulder. It wasn't until they hit the door to the rear alley, the frigid air slapping Violet that she came out from under her shock.

"Anthea!" Violet screamed, needing more than anything to get back to her girl. If only she could get back to Thea, hold her hand, feel the pulse at her neck, then everything would be all right. "Anthea!"

The pale wretch of a man that followed on Woodley's heels grabbed a red switch on the wall next to the door as they walked past. There was a shrieking noise, a siren that screamed as loudly as the endless voice in her head and heart. Lights flashed red and white, blinding her as she lost sight of Thea, lying so quietly on the floor of the hall.

_My fault, all my fault. I'm sorry, baby._

* * *

><p><strong>Now...<strong>

The club was a riot, people streaming out from the exits all over the place, like ants from a burning hill. Cop cars lit up the street, ambulances and fire trucks casting their seizure inducing lights over the front of the club. The night was the coldest so far this winter, pouring on the artic temperatures as the year crept closer to its end.

Sherlock shook head to toe, soaking wet from the sink in the restroom, and trying to shock John into staying awake with the frigid water. The paramedics were running to the ambulance, John on a stretcher between them, barely conscious. Sherlock had succeeded in keeping John awake, and he hoped he'd gotten enough of the drug off of his doctor before he got a fatal dose. Considering the size of the doctor, and the sheer amount of gel Sherlock had wiped off of him, he couldn't be sure. He didn't know how long it had been there before he finally noticed that John was enjoying himself far too much, no matter how well Sherlock had distracted him on the dance floor.

"Sherlock!" He barely registered the voice calling his name, too cold and numb, too focused on his lover to see the two men running to his side. Sherlock refused to let go of the end of the stretcher, as they dodged the milling mess of people on their way to the ambulance.

Someone had thrown the fire alarm just as the paramedics had made it into the restroom, and Sherlock had barely noticed. Part of him feared what happened to Violet and Anthea, not having seen the women since John was drugged while they were dancing. He didn't know where they were, and his mind was torn in two, each half equally demanding that the other was more important; Violet and John.

John won by proximity alone, and Sherlock clung to him as they made it to the ambulance.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade grabbed his shoulders as the paramedics readied the stretcher, John moving feebly under the blanket.

"Sherlock, where are the girls!" Lestrade shook him, and he snapped back to reality, blinking at the DI.

"I don't know." He whispered, mouth dry from panic and stress. "I don't know."

"How do you not know?!" Mycroft shouted at him, ripping him from Lestrade's grip, turning Sherlock to him roughly, his hands like claws on his shoulders. His face was a rictus of wrath and ice cold disappointment. "They were with you!"

"_I don't know!"_ Sherlock screamed back at his brother, tears running from his eyes, cold to the bone, and terrified John was going to die. He hadn't been paying attention, and this was all his fault, he failed. He failed everyone.

"Mycroft, let him go." Lestrade pried his brother off of him, and walked Sherlock to the ambulance. It was getting ready to leave, and Sherlock could barely function enough to realize he should be going with John to the hospital. Guilt swamped him, ground his clarity to dust. "Sherlock, don't worry about the girls, Mycroft and I will find them. Go with John."

"Hey, hold up. He's going with his partner." Lestrade told the paramedics, as they went to close the door.

"Is he family?" One of the medics asked, and Sherlock couldn't pry his eyes off his doctor.

Lestrade swore under his breath, and he felt his friend move jerkily, reaching in his coat. Lestrade pulled out his badge, and held it up to the paramedics to see.

"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade, MPS. That's his husband. Let him in the ambulance." Lestrade didn't wait for the paramedics, he threw the door open wide and helped Sherlock climb in the back. "Take them to St. Bart's Hospital. I'll call ahead, they get around the clock guards and a secure room."

"We need his name, and his husband's." They were speaking around him like he wasn't sitting there on the bench seat. He wasn't; he was on that stretcher with John, holding him tightly. No matter he was sitting quietly, catatonic with fear and worry, he was lying beside his lover, hugging him to his chest, listening to his heartbeat. His body sat quietly, but his heart, mind and soul held John.

"Dr. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

><p><strong>Now... <strong>

_He was with them. Sherlock was with them and they're gone. He never misses a threat…._

Mycroft watched as his brother left the club in the ambulance, anger and frustration rolling over him in waves. Anthea was around here somewhere, and Violet too. They needed to find them. Greg called Donovan as he walked back to Mycroft's side, asking her to run to Bart's, and manage Sherlock and John until he could get there. Mycroft heard something about marriage, but shook it off, certain he misheard.

_He sees everything. Sherlock never misses a thing. Sherlock… Where are the girls?_

"C'mon, let's go find the girls." Greg grabbed his arms, and towed him off the street, heading for the entrance to the club. Greg flashed his badge, the one he technically wasn't even supposed to be using yet as he hadn't been cleared for duty, still on medical leave. The police at the door left them in, and Mycroft set out immediately, looking for his people, his niece, his best friend.

_Anthea…. Let fate be kind…My Anthea. Don't do this to me…._

Police crowded everywhere, fire fighters and more paramedics in the main area of the club. There had been a riot when the alarms went off, people trampling each other in their haste to escape. People sat on the floor, or on stretchers, and chairs and stools dragged from the bar out onto the dance floor where there was more room.

"Sir!"

Mycroft looked up from the dance floor, one of his operatives he'd assigned to guard Violet running to him through the crowd.

"Where's Anthea and my niece?" Mycroft demanded, his words a brutal staccato that made his operative blanch.

"We've scoured the whole place. No sign of your niece, sir. We think they got out the back alley before we could get in here. Someone threw the fire alarms, otherwise we would have been in here sooner. This place erupted into bedlam when that happened."

Mycroft chilled. No sign of his niece. Anthea. Violet wasn't here anymore, so where was Anthea….. He looked up, but didn't see her. She would know he was here by now, his people wouldn't hesitate to bring her to him immediately, they all knew better…

_Sherlock left you alone. My Anthea. You said you were leaving, but not this way…. Never this way. No…..._

"Anthea?" Mycroft got in close, and grabbed his operative by his collar, yanking him bodily to him, inches from his face. "Where is Anthea?!"

"Sir… I have some bad news." The operative whispered to him, face white, eyes wide in fear at the expression on his director's face.

Mycroft felt the world drop out from under his feet. The great chasm in his heart, the scar scoured into his soul, the place of pain and misery he kept secret and hidden from his family and the universe cracked. Every single emotion he refused to feel since the day he betrayed and killed his own brother came roaring out from the depths of his heart, smashing through the carefully erected walls around his mind. If not for Gregory, Mycroft would have collapsed.

"Where is she?" He whispered harshly, the howling abyss in his soul escaping with each word.

A memory came to him, immediate and violently real…

"_You alone know my real name. Will you whisper it into the dark night air? So that I can hear you say it, and so you know that you will never be alone, no matter where I may be?"_


	53. Two Hearts

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but he's got every part of me.**

**A/N: Sorry for the delay in posting, real life caught up to me. And temptation. But I digress! A diversion from last week's heart-wrencher, here's something entertaining. **

**Almost to the end of Part II of "Forever Yours, Sherlock". I cannot wait for Part III to start... Clues abound in this chapter for what's to come!**

**Special thanks to silvereyedbitch, editor and all around awesome person.**

**New Chapter drops next Sunday.**

**Enjoy my dears, read on! **

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 53<strong>

"_**Two Hearts"**_

**December 30****th****, 3:48 AM**

"Boss!" Donovan called again, trying for the third time to get Lestrade's attention.

Lestrade was still in his long coat, scarf askew, hands buried in his trouser pockets, head down. His badge, which until tonight had been useless in his coat pocket for the last couple of months, was clipped to his belt, as if he were back on duty. He was biting his lip as he stared at the floor, at the small pool of blood under the impact spot in the drywall.

Donovan's eyes tracked to the same spot, but she hurriedly glanced away, uncomfortable seeing the broken wall. The evidence of a short, brutal burst of violence usually didn't bother the sergeant, but this was her first time directly knowing the victim of such an attack. Donovan pulled her thoughts away from what had happened to the one woman in the hall, and tried to think about the other victim.

_I can't help Anthea, but I can try to help Violet. It's not too late._

"Anything from MI6? The warrant teams?" Lestrade asked suddenly, his dark eyes pinning her where she stood in the bright hall. She fidgeted for a moment before sighing deeply and shaking her head once. They'd been here at the club for hours, interrogating witnesses, searching Woodley's offices, his private suite upstairs, and accounting for all the drugs they'd found on the premises. The only thing they hadn't found was evidence of where Woodley would have taken Violet.

"No, Boss. The cameras tracked all possible vehicles that could have been used, but since the cameras here in the immediate area, including the club's, were out, we don't know what Violet's abductors were driving. No way to track all Possibles." She hated telling him that, she really did, and she flinched at the harsh cast of his features. "And nothing has been found from the warrant searches on Woodley's place at the hotel, or his residence outside London."

He wore a tormented expression, eyes haunted, and she felt her heart ache even more as he turned back to the small pool of blood in the club's hallway.

"I got word from the Yard, sir. You've been temporarily reinstated, per MI6's request." Donovan tried not to let her relief show up in her voice, knowing this was the wrong time to tell him she was glad he was back, that she didn't have to pretend anymore that she wasn't lost without him. "You're back in charge, thank God."

"Good." Lestrade tore his gaze away from the blood at last, and she shivered at the rage burning in his eyes as he looked back at her. "Comb all our informants, every junkie we've busted, every single dealer, pimp, and prostitute. Everyone who has ever snitched for the Yard, I want their balls in a vice. We will find Woodley, and Violet."

"Yes, sir."

"C'mon, Donovan. We won't have a Holmes helping us on this one, not for a good while. Neither of them are in any condition to help."

* * *

><p><strong>St. Bartholomew's Hospital, London<strong>

**3:50 AM**

**Room 200**

_Thump-thump…...Thump-thump…Thump-thump…_

This heart was steady, sure, strong. Each beat a calming expectation of the next. The gentle beat translated via the vitals monitor was soft in the hushed hospital room. It valiantly tried to sooth the ravaged nerves of the man who sat beside the motionless form resting under the white blankets.

He was assaulted by fear. Pernicious and sickening, the whispers of fear voiced their doubts in his mind, finding footholds as his thoughts spun out scenario after scenario, ones where he wasn't too late to stop the horrible events of the night. His failure to observe, to pay attention tonight resulted in every person he dared to love getting hurt, and even with his recent exposure to guilt, he had no measurable ability to control the overwhelming emotion he was experiencing.

_Don't leave me. I cannot be me without you. Don't die. Wake up, wake up as yourself, full of life and strength, unwavering in your love and devotion. Wake up. I need you to wake up._

The fear chided him, scolded him, and drew guilt into the maelstrom of uncontrollable emotions in his heart. Love had cracked the shield around his heart, and as a result, he now felt everything. The nothingness he once felt so confident dwelling in was gone, and in its place was a boiling mass of _everything._ He felt the terror, rising as bile in his throat, he felt the despair and grief as numbing blankets of ice on his shoulders and chest. He tasted the bitterness of blame, the guilt of letting down the people he loved. All of it making his hands curl into fists in his hair, the pain in his scalp a small punishment for his failings.

_Don't leave me alone. Fight for me, fight for you, fight for us._

_Fight._

His control, his impeccable, unflappable confidence was gone. So far out of reach he was rendered useless. He didn't know how he was going to survive the next minute, the rest of the night….. Just as he didn't know whether the beloved person in the bed next to him would make it to dawn.

_Thump-thump…..Thump-thump….…Thump-thump…._

* * *

><p><strong>St. Bart's<strong>

**Room 209…Directly across the hall.**

**3:50 AM**

_Thump…..thump….Thump-thump…_

This heartbeat was weaker. Struggling….. Fighting to find its rhythm. To find a reason to fight. It had fought for so long, so bravely. The body it was contained within was fragile, the night's experience beyond its capacity to function easily, muscles, bones, nerves abused.

_You have never been fragile, not to me. It hurts, HURTS, to see you like this now. Keep breathing, don't give up. You have never given up. You are the bravest person I know, don't give up._

He stood by the bed, eyes locked on the face that usually held such vivacity, such an enjoyment of life, that to see it now, barren of conscious thought, struck him to his core.

Tenuous control left him unable to move, afraid he would shatter into a million pieces to the cold tile floor. He was having trouble breathing, refusing to let air fill his lungs until the slight form in front of him did as well. He breathed in tandem, threatening to leave himself spilled on the floor from lack of oxygen, but he could do no less. There was nothing, nothing he could do to help the ravaged body in front of him, other than to breathe along, encouraging fruitlessly, foolishly, trying to infuse each breath with more energy.

His vaunted abilities, his impeachable control, every single experience and enriching moment of his life was no match, no resistance to the fear, the utter helplessness he now felt, standing still in this quiet room. The much needed and valued soul resting on the precipice of life and death in front of him held no small piece of his heart, his life, and to be confronted by the possibility of permanent loss ripped at his sanity.

_Fight. Fight for me._

* * *

><p><strong>London, 4:00 AM<strong>

Clay lay flat on his back, fully clothed, his bed still made, hands crossed over his stomach. He stared at the ceiling, content to listen to the far off sounds of a city slowly waking up. Dawn was hours away yet, but the blue collar crowds were beginning to make the city come alive, pieces of a never-resting machine that rumbled to life before the break of dawn every morning.

_I haven't been to Castle Láidreacht in years. Not since Moriarty ordered us away, to cover his assets in Europe. That was days before The Fall, and his suicide. Did he know then that he would take his own life, and leave Jaime alone?_

Bitterness welled up from his gut, and Clay swallowed back the urge to swear. He wanted to return to the castle, a place he once called home, regardless of his former place in the stone barracks outside the great walls the last time he was there. He had been a lowly foot soldier, unnoticed but for his skills in assassination and subterfuge. It was those skills that drew the attention of the late James Moriarty. And so, disillusioned by his lackluster and underrated life within Her Majesty's service, he had resigned his commission, and joined the mercenary ranks led by a young woman, then known only by a dreadful moniker. Death.

Back then not many of the men under her command knew her true identity, and most had considered her the lover of their boss. The connection between Death and James Moriarty had been unbreakable, and the devotion the young woman gave Moriarty used to inspire envious conversations in the barracks some nights among the men. Many of them would have killed for the chance to have her look at any one of them with the same faith and love she gave Moriarty, and the negligent, casual affection he gave her in return left them feeling protective of their mistress. They all felt that she deserved better than the random hugs, the light touches to her perfect face that Moriarty gave her. She was a sight to behold, her skills and talents leaps and bounds beyond even the best of the men, and she was a treasure valued by all within the walls of Moriarty's castle.

If not for the undeniable rapport between them, he with his inhuman ability to know what she wanted, needed, and she with her obvious delight in making him happy and proud, Clay would have long suspected that their Master and young Death had a seriously dysfunctional relationship.

It was one night, years ago now, but soon after his arrival at the castle that Clay learned the truth. The pair, Death and his new master, Moriarty, were arguing in the great courtyard of the castle. He had been on patrol, the moon high in the midsummer night sky, the breeze soft and warm. Their voices hadn't carried well, so he was upon them before he knew they were there.

She knew, he was a fool for thinking she wouldn't sense him in the shadows. Death knew he was there, a predator sensing another in the lethal night. She never let on though, merely a tiny tilt of her lovely head the only hint that she knew he was hiding in the deeper shadows nearby. Moriarty hadn't, his senses not as attuned as the two killers, and their argument continued unabated.

"Moran is a fool, James. Why do you pander to that cretin?" Death demanded angrily, pacing on the great stones of the courtyard, her long shadow a sharp blade of black cutting through the moonlight.

"I need his position, his contacts in the Ministry. Keeping him happy allows me access without having to cultivate another mole." Moriarty replied, and Clay was struck by the patience in his voice. Their mercurial master rarely showed patience, usually flashing from rage to eerie calm faster than thought. "And I don't _pander _to him."

"He aggravates me." Death growled, ignoring his last comment, still pacing, her shadow chasing her as she prowled the stones. "He persists anymore in his infatuation with me, I will gut him like a hog and let him bleed out on the streets of London."

Moriarty laughed, throwing back his head, hands in the pockets of his finely tailored suit. She sent him a glare, angry enough to leave a lesser man swallowing his tongue in fear, yet Moriarty let it slide off him like water from a waterproof ghillie poncho. He alone never showed fear or apprehension when she was enraged, and that was a state she was steadily approaching. Clay was growing nervous, even though she had yet to acknowledge him, her anger directed at Moriarty.

"He persists because you are a marvel, Jaime. Even the basest fool can see your worth." Moriarty said, and Clay felt his jaw drop at finally learning Death's name. _Jaime._ His next words robbed Clay of his thoughts. "And what man wouldn't wish to curry my favor, by wooing my little sister?"

_She is Jaime Moriarty… Moriarty has a little sister!_

"Wooing? Wooing?" Death spun to a halt, her long braid swinging as she faced her brother. "You would have me encourage that idiot, to accept his clumsy advances and crude pick-up lines, merely to make him happy so you can use him to further your own devices?!"

She was screeching now, and the flash of silver in her hand under the brilliant moon, making Clay tense. She spun her knife, moonlight given physical form, and Clay feared she might use it. If she went for Moriarty, Clay didn't know who he would have to defend, or if he would even survive trying to interfere. Moriarty didn't flinch, rocking on his heels, a small smile on his face as he watched Death-Jaime- spin the blade in agitation.

"It is as insulting a proposition as letting him assume he is your chief disciple! And then you reveal my identity to him, and Moran's leering turns to advances! You KNOW I will never return his attempts at seduction, unless it is with my blade! He dares to touch me uninvited, Brother, and I swear on our mother's grave that I will spill his guts in the street before the halls of MI6!" Death said fervently, the blade pointed at her brother's face. Her vow bounced off the great stone walls, and Clay saw at last a hint of something in Moriarty's eyes other than insanity.

His shoulders drooped, the cockiness fading, and Moriarty stared hard at his sister. She was panting, rage contorting her gorgeous features, her blade still pointed right at his face. He looked past the blade, and Clay was startled to the soles of his feet by what happened next. Moriarty reached out, and calmly took the blade from her hand. And she let him. The blade came free from her sure grip, and she suddenly relaxed, tension falling from her like the last wave of rain in a storm. Her arm dropped, and she watched her brother, waiting. Moriarty stuck the blade in his belt, and reached out, stepping close.

Moriarty gently framed her face with his hands, and tugged her head down for him to kiss her brow. She was taller than he, but not overmuch. Clay had never seen anyone touch Death as Moriarty did, unafraid and sure of her reaction to the contact. No one touched her, not even accidentally, without the fear of her knife sinking into a tender spot. Yet he did, and she accepted the affection.

"We need him yet, my darling. Offer him nothing but your contempt, and if he presses his luck, I will deal with him." Moriarty whispered to his sister, and she shook her head slightly, not believing him. He sighed, and tried again.

"Jaime. My sister, _mo chroí__." _Moriarty said, the affection in his voice wheedling past her stubbornness. The Irish was indecipherable to Clay, but he figured it was an endearment of some sort. "If Moran dares to touch you uninvited, I will gut him myself, and leave his body for the crows."

"Promise?" She whispered, sad now, the anger gone. She sounded like a tired little girl, needing reassurance and love.

"I promise." He held her still, foreheads touching, and Clay strained to hear Moriarty. "I will always take care of you, my sister. No one holds a surer place in my heart than you."

She lifted her hands to grip his wrists, and the two siblings held each other in the courtyard of the great castle, on the shores of the North Atlantic, the moon hanging low on the horizon. Its reach was long even as dawn approached, illuminating them until the last second as sunlight rushed into the courtyard. It wasn't until that moment in time that Moriarty earned Clay's full faith and respect, when he promised to care for his sister forever.

Clay stood vigil over the pair, his presence known only to the highly skilled assassin. She never revealed Clay's presence to her brother.

Clay came back slowly from the memory, saddened by the inevitable betrayal that drove Jaime over the edge of sanity into mindless grief and rage. Moriarty eventually ordered Jaime to marry Moran, and within days he was dead at his own hand. Clay had returned to London once the word of his death spread through the ranks. Clay's one thought was to find Jaime, heedless of his previous orders to stay in Central Europe.

When Clay returned, he was devastated to learn that Jaime was reduced to living the life of an empty-headed socialite, forever bound to the lecherous fool Moran as his fake wife, forbidden to reveal herself to the world. She grieved alone, lost without her brother, endless days and nights held captive by her word, and his last orders. It was only her skills and the fear she instilled in Moran that kept that man from pressing his advantage, and using Moriarty's orders in forcing her to his bed. With Moriarty dead, Moran foolishly expected things to change in his favor, but Jaime retained control of the inner web of the syndicate, and left Moran out in the cold. It was her refusal to let him exploit Moriarty's syndicate for his own plans that eventually forced Moran further under the heels of his North Korean masters.

Clay frequently traveled back and forth between his place in France and London, and each time he would go to visit Jaime Moriarty. He offered what meager company he could, even if he just stood ignored in her solar and listened to her breathe through her pain. Over the next two years, she gradually acknowledged him, and the day she cast off Moran and welcomed Clay into her inner circle of guards was one of the best in his short life.

Jim Moriarty left his sister alone, and broken. Clay vowed to never do that to her, eternally pledging his loyalty and service to the remaining Moriarty scion. His position now as his lady's lieutenant was one he was honored to hold, and he would never let her down. Their return to Castle _Láidreacht_ was a chance for all of them to start over. For Jaime, Mary, and himself.

Clay found himself sad at the thought of leaving London, and the image of the consulting detective teased the edges of his thoughts. Sherlock Holmes was everything that Moriarty had claimed him to be, just _more._ He was the man who forced Moriarty's defeat, and took Jaime out of the game without killing her. Clay's surveillance of the detective the last couple of weeks had made him even more fascinating to Clay, and he struggled to maintain his control around the man. The detective was deeply involved with another man, and Clay refused to sully his honor by poaching.

He wanted to though. Dear God did he want to try it, touch those rioting curls, listen to the man speak for hours, see if he felt as amazing as he looked…..

_As if he would even notice me like that… all our intel says that Sherlock Holmes has never loved anyone, except for John Watson._

Clay gave in the urge to know what Holmes was doing, and cursed himself for his weakness as he reached for his mobile. When he was in the Holmes' kitchen over Christmas, speaking to Sherlock about the threat he and his family faced, he had snuck a small tracker into the consulting detective's coat. He was still surprised he'd gotten away with it, considering who was in the room at the time.

It was still functional, its battery useful for another week or so. Clay snagged his mobile, and opened the tracker app. The small dot that was Holmes lit up on the map of London, and Clay sucked in a sharp breath in surprise.

_Oh fuck me. St Bart's Hospital. Sherlock is in the hospital….. Please let it be for a case….._

Clay sat up, blood rushing in his head, making him dizzy as he brought up the news on his mobile. He found several headlines that made him fly off the bed, grabbing his jacket and gun.

"_**Violence at Sinful Vices Nightclub. Hat Detective Involved."**_

"_**Consulting Detective's Lover in Critical Condition at St Bart's". **_

* * *

><p><strong>St. Bartholomew's Hospital, London<strong>

**7:00 AM**

**Room 200**

John felt like he was floating, his limbs heavy and weighing him down in cold waters. His throat was dry, mouth tasted like desiccated gym socks, and his whole body ached. He dragged in a deep breath of air, and wanted to sneeze as he let it go in a rush. He only ever wanted to sneeze when he had oxygen tubes running into his…_ Why am I in the hospital?_

John blinked awake, and he found himself staring at ceilings he knew too well. He was flat on his back, in a cold hospital room, covered by a thin white blanket, and stuck in both arms by IV lines. He was getting oxygen through tubing running in his nose, and he ripped it away just as he sneezed. His whole body objected, and he groaned loudly in complaint as well.

There was a small bang off to his side, and John turned his head to see Sherlock rubbing his eyes, sitting in a chair a foot away. His detective had obviously been sleeping, because he had that blurry look in his eyes that he got whenever John would wake him too early in the morning when he got ready for work. Sherlock was still in his club clothes, and he looked damp and bedraggled, his curls a crazier riot than they usually were. His long coat must have been draped over him, and it was falling to the floor as Sherlock struggled to wake up.

"Hey, love. You okay?" John coughed, his voice scratchy, but clear enough.

Sherlock came fully awake so fast that John had to grin. Gone was the sleepy detective, lost to where he was or what was going on. In his place was the devoted lover and best friend, a man relieved to see his partner awake. Sherlock grabbed his hand, and John gripped it back, squeezing hard so that Sherlock knew he was okay, no matter how badly he might look.

"John." Sherlock leaned over, and still holding John's hand, leaned his whole upper torso and head on John's shoulder. He stayed seated, and just rested on John, face pressed hard to his shoulder. John lifted his free hand, mindful of the IV, and buried his fingers in the soft curls of his love.

"I take it things got bad, huh? Told you I wasn't good at dancing." John said, trying his best to sound strong. Sherlock was fragile when it came to John's well-being, and he must have been through hell while John was out. "Care to share? What happened?"

"Someone…..Woodley….. Drugged you." Sherlock's words were muffled in his shoulder, and he had trouble understanding what his detective was saying.

"Come again, love? I was drugged?" John was confused. He hadn't a thing to drink before his memory went dark, and he didn't think Sherlock would let anyone slip something in his drink. Doing something like that without Sherlock seeing it should be impossible.

Sherlock lifted his face, keeping his chin propped up on John's shoulder, their faces inches apart.

"While we were dancing. I wasn't paying attention, someone swiped Winter's Night on the back of your neck." Sherlock mumbled, quiet. His eyes were tired, face paler than usual. He met John's gaze head on, and John saw the tightness around his eyes as he spoke. "You OD'd. It was really close, John."

John breathed through his surprise, and took a mental evaluation of how he felt as he tried to process Sherlock's words. His body felt like he'd fallen off the back of a lorry speeding down the highway, and he was incredibly thirsty, head achy. Yet considering the fact he'd OD'd on a designer drug that someone obviously tried to kill him with, he felt okay. Not great, but okay. He'd had worse mornings while still in the army, coming out of a three day holiday weekend while on leave, having drank his way through so many pints someone should have taken his medical license away.

"Did I hurt anyone?" John asked, worried. He tried to see if Sherlock was hurt, because if he was drugged while they were dancing, it stood to reason the first person to get hurt when he went Doppelgänger-Tom-crazy would've been Sherlock. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"The dose was very large, John. You skipped the berserker stage, and started to OD almost immediately." Sherlock told him, and strangely enough, John was reassured by this. He wouldn't be able to handle it if he'd hurt someone while under the effects of that drug.

"Thank God. How's Violet, and Anthea? Are the girls okay?" John asked, rubbing his hand through Sherlock's curls still. "They didn't get drugged too, did they?"

Sherlock's reaction to his questions made John's heart skip a beat, the monitors in the corner having a small fit before his heart settled back into rhythm. The detective's face went from sleepy relief to heartbroken in seconds. Sherlock closed his eyes, and John watched as his lover did his best to control his wayward emotions. He sat back up, and squeezed John's hand even tighter.

John dreaded what Sherlock was going to say, as the detective opened his eyes. Heavenly eyes were screaming at him that something was very, very wrong. John struggled to sit up, glad he could manage it with one arm, and waited. Hardly breathing, he waited.

"Woodley kidnapped Violet, John. While we were dancing. He drugged you to distract me, and took her." Sherlock gasped out, and he held John's hand so hard it was starting to hurt. "And Anthea…. She…"

Sherlock's voice gave out, and the detective turned to face the doorway. John was inundated by disbelief and pain at Sherlock's words, and John turned to look when Sherlock failed to continue. He could see through the glass wall of his room, and John felt nausea roll through him. He could see out of his room, into the one directly across the hall. Mycroft stood at the foot of another bed, unmoving. It took John a second to see the dark mahogany sweep of Anthea's lovely hair past the white bandages wrapped around her head.

"Anthea is in a coma, John. Woodley's remaining men… Anthea disabled one severely…. He...….." Sherlock was trying to speak, too absorbed in seeing his brother's grief to organize his thoughts. Sherlock gathered his resolve, and tried again. "Witnesses say Woodley threw her into a wall when he took Violet." Sherlock finally told him, and they both watched as the eldest Holmes brother stood vigil alone at Anthea's bedside.

John swallowed past his dismay, and turned back to Sherlock. He tugged gently on his lover's arm, and Sherlock eventually tore his eyes away from his brother, and back to his doctor.

"Tell me everything, Sherlock. Everything. We need to get Violet back."

* * *

><p><strong>St Bart's<strong>

**7:09 AM ….Dawn**

Clay stood in the shadows of the hall, a few feet from the doorway to John Watson's room. He was glad to hear the army doctor was awake, and equally glad he'd stopped when he heard him speaking to the detective, else he would've kept walking right into their conversation before he was ready. He was able to see them all from where he was at in the hall, straight into both rooms, and the presence of the spymaster in the room to his left was making Clay nervous. He didn't like being nervous.

The halls were dark, the sun rising slowly at this exact moment, the darkness clinging in this early morning light. None of the hall lights were on, turned off by a timer as the sun rose. He stayed where he was, able to clearly hear the doctor and detective speaking in the room to his right.

Clay listened carefully, gathering intel, wondering what he should do. He let Sherlock catch him up along with the doctor, and Clay felt a band of grief tighten around his chest at the obvious pain and guilt in the detective's voice.

"I left the girls alone, John. I didn't pay attention, I let my guard down. You almost died, Violet's missing, and Anthea may die." Sherlock murmured softly, and Clay clenched his hands into fists. This wasn't Sherlock's fault. Woodley did it all. Sherlock wasn't to blame for any of it, and he shouldn't be allowed to carry that burden. Clay knew from years of experience that evil acts belonged only to the ones who committed them, and no one else. Carrying the burden of guilt for something outside your control merely lessened you. "Mycroft blames me."

"Sherlock. NO! This. IS. Not. Your. Fault." Cpt. Watson stressed to the detective, and Clay smiled at the vehemence the smaller man held in his voice. This one loved the detective very much, it rang out clear and true in every word. He'd keep the detective's head on straight. "And I don't care what Mycroft said about it, either. He was nowhere around last night, and Violet is as much his niece as yours. Anthea is his friend and well….his something in the spook business, and all he was doing was projecting his own guilt onto you last night."

Clay leaned forward, and glared unseen at the back of the oblivious spymaster's head. Trying to blame his little brother for what sounded like a complete mission failure was a little extreme.

"I…." Sherlock started to object, but something made him shut up. Clay figured the doctor was doing something enticing to distract the detective, and Clay shuffled on his feet, glad his bronze skin hid the blush creeping across his cheekbones. He refused to look, not wishing to intrude on what was obviously a very private moment.

"No more nonsense about blaming yourself, love. We need to find out what's going on, and where Woodley took Violet."

Clay smiled, and he was glad for once that his infatuation with the detective could benefit something other than his insomnia. He knew exactly where Woodley took Violet Hunter.

His mobile chose that exact moment to vibrate in his pocket. Clay pulled it free, and stepped back a few paces from the rooms, so the occupants wouldn't hear him reply to his mistress.

**Clay. That was the laziest excuse for sneaking out to spy on Sherlock Holmes I have ever heard you utter. "I'm going for a walk." Really? –JM**

**Yes, my lady. I'll try harder next time. I'm at St Bart's. Something happened last night. –C**

**Explain, now. –JM**

Clay checked to make sure no one was watching him, that neither Holmes saw him yet.

**Woodley has Violet Hunter. Anthea is in a coma. John Watson was drugged, and nearly died from an OD. Neither Holmes knows where Woodley has taken Violet. –C**

Clay waited patiently, checking frequently that no one was leaving either room. Nurses and doctors walked around him, and he moved closer to the retired captain's room. Both men were still speaking, and Sherlock was talking about a network of homeless people searching for Woodley's labs. Clay's brows rose with that one, and he wondered what the hell that meant, eyeing his mobile. It was a miracle that he hadn't been noticed yet.

**I will recon the warehouse. You have permission to approach Sherlock. Do not be seen by the elder Holmes. –JM**

He waited, somehow knowing she wasn't done.

**A debt is owed. –JM**

**Thank you, my lady. –C**

Nothing for a moment, and then Clay smiled as she sent another text.

**Stop calling me that! –JM**

**Sorry. Ma'am. –C**

* * *

><p><strong>December 30<strong>**th****, 8:00 AM**

**London**

"Hey asshole! You tell Woodley he won't have to worry about my uncles, I'll kill him myself!" Violet yelled at the dour faced guard as he threw her back into the dilapidated concrete room, slamming the door shut behind him. Her trip to the crappy (pun intended) bathroom had resulted in Violet getting more cuts on her feet, and too many leers from hyped up junkies carrying what looked like Uzis or something. Everyone is this place was either wrapped up in lab coats and protective suits, or so strung out she was surprised they weren't shooting each other.

"Please don't provoke them, Ms. Hunter." Carruthers pleaded with her, still sitting against the wall where she'd left him earlier. "I've been here for days, I stopped trying to get away after the fourth or fifth beating."

"It's not my fault you've given up." Violet scolded the chemist, and she went back to pacing the cold floor, her silver mini providing little warmth. If she stopped pacing, her temperature would drop too low, and she'd get sick for sure. "Your son is fine, by the way. So is Bear."

"Vincent is okay? Thank God." Carruthers sighed, relief pouring off him in waves. He slumped on the floor, and Violet peered at him. He was thin, pale, and tired, and there were bruises of varying age littered about his face. He wasn't kidding about the beatings. Violet felt a little bad, but she'd been beat up a few times, and she wasn't whining about it.

"Sorry about your wife," she said softly, pausing briefly in her pacing. Carruthers didn't look at her, merely nodded his head once.

_This fucking sucks ass. Poor man watches his wife get killed, he's kidnapped, and he is being forced to do something…Hhmm._

"So why were you kidnapped, anyway?" Violet asked, and went back to pacing. She could barely feel her toes.

"That guy Woodley wants me to stabilize a hallucinogenic narcotic romantically labeled Winter's Night." Carruthers told her, and she smirked. "It can't be manufactured in large amounts due to its instability, and the dosages are restricted by body weight and type. That's affecting his sales."

_Sherlock was right_.

"Dead on with what my uncle thought, then. Sorry he got sidelined tracking you down, we had a douchebag American spy trainer trying to kill us all the last couple of weeks." Violet told him, and she fought back a giggle at the odd look on his face. "You know why Woodley kidnapped me?"

"No idea. I would hear about a woman Woodley wanted sometimes in conversation in the labs, but I never got a name. I'm assuming that would be you."

"Yeah. He got me. And he hurt my girlfriend in the process." Violet sucked in some air, and shook off the impending sense of doom she was feeling. She needed to focus on staying warm, and escaping. Worry for Anthea would come later.

"I'm sorry." He whispered, and she knew he understood. Woodley's people killed his wife when they came for him. It was her turn to nod, and not reply. Her heart hurt so badly she rubbed at her chest.

"Who's your uncle? A policeman?" Carruthers asked, obviously trying not to think about his grief and the situation he was in, and talking about Sherlock could occupy anyone. She humored him, and figured she had nothing else to talk about.

"Sherlock Holmes." Violet said offhandedly, and she finally laughed as his eyes bugged out, and he got the silliest expression of shock on his face. "Yeah, that Sherlock Holmes."

"You're Sherlock Holmes' niece? Thank God." He exhaled roughly, and rubbed his face briskly with his hands.

"Why's that?"

"If you're the famous detective's niece, we're going to get rescued anytime now."

Violet smiled, and kept chuckling. Not the reaction she was expecting, but it pleased her none the less. Her uncle apparently had more fans since his dramatic resurrection this past autumn. Coming back from the dead, and stopping two major catastrophes in as many weeks tends to make people like you.

"We're on the same page then! Just don't expect me to sit back and wait for Sherlock to show up, okay? My uncle is brilliant, but he ends up in trouble every time he tries to save the day. I plan on kicking some of that trouble in the balls."

"Well, if he's got half your determination, I think we'll be okay. Just don't get me beaten again."

"No promises."

* * *

><p><strong>December 30<strong>**th****, 8:30 AM**

**St Bart's Hospital**

**Room 209**

Mycroft stirred from his reverie, blinking his dry eyes. He'd been here since late last night, and he knew from the light streaming past the blinds it was shortly after dawn.

Anthea wasn't moving, her chest barely rising as her body struggled to survive. Not once in the long hours since he'd rushed to her side had he taken his eyes from her face.

"Mr. Holmes?" asked a soft voice at the door. Mycroft could barely tear his gaze away from Anthea, but he managed it, and eyes the doctor standing patiently in the doorway.

"Yes, doctor?" he whispered, part of him foolishly fearing he might disturb the young woman slipping away from him with every breath she took.

"Can we talk?" The doctor asked, waving back over his shoulder. He was the neurologist that had tried to talk to him last night, but he'd been in no shape to listen. Once he learned that Anthea lived, but was dying by inches every minute, Mycroft lost all ability to function. The last thing he really remembered was ordering the upper brass of the MSP to temporarily approve Gregory's reinstatement at Scotland Yard, and tasking his partner with finding Woodley and Violet. After that, it had been nothing but fear and pain.

"Speak to me here, Doctor. I'm not leaving her side."

"Mr. Holmes, it's about her DNR, and her instructions in case she ever experienced something like this. I think it best she not hear us talking about her condition. I prefer to give her some hope, on the chance she can make it through."

Mycroft shuddered, and wiped at his eyes with one hand. He agreed. Gregory had been dying after he got shot, and he claimed to have heard Mycroft in the "grey nothingness". He wouldn't risk Anthea hearing him speak of her death. He wouldn't be that cruel to her.

"Very well, Doctor. Make it quick." Mycroft warned the neurologist, slowly following him out of Anthea's room, keeping his eyes on her as long as he could.

* * *

><p><strong>St Bart's, 8:35 AM<strong>

**Room 200**

Clay stepped from the empty room beside the captain's, and watched as Mycroft Holmes was lead to a small lobby at the end of the hall. He felt badly for the man, he knew too well the grief of losing a loved one. Clay was lucky, as Jaime had crawled her way free out of the burning ruins of her past, and back into his life.

"John, what are you doing?" Clay could hear Sherlock's voice easily, the door wide open on the room across the hall. He could see into the room, and the retired army doctor was sitting up in bed, and reaching for his trousers that were folded on the small table next to the bed. The IVs were already undone, and hanging from their respective stands.

"We need to get moving, Sherlock. I'm feeling better, I swear. Nothing worse than a severe hangover, really. We need to find Violet, Sherlock." John went to drag on his trousers, and Sherlock reached out and snatched them quickly away from the smaller man.

"You OD'd last night, John! And you have the audacity to claim I'm a bad patient!"

Clay couldn't help it, he really couldn't. He laughed, softly, but not quietly enough. His deep chuckle drifted across the hall, and both men turned to face him. They were both too funny, equally stubborn, and well suited. Clay was ready to like the doctor, as well as respect him. He was a brother in arms, no matter Clay's current occupation, and John Watson was more than capable of holding his own with the amazing Sherlock Holmes. Clay wasn't even jealous.

_Guess I'm a shipper now. They are too cute._

Clay kept the grin on his face, and quickly stepped across the hall into Cpt. Watson's room. Sherlock was blinking at him in surprise, eyes jumping back and forth between him and the retired army doctor. Clay didn't drop the smile, and nodded curtly to both men. He shut the door, and went to close the blinds, giving them some privacy.

"Um….hi?" John said, clearly confused. He was still sitting up on the bed, eyeing Clay with consternation. It was clear Dr. Watson didn't recall him from the events at Blackwood Manor.

"Glad to see you're on the mend, Captain Watson." Clay didn't salute, but it was a damn near thing, his training screaming at him to acknowledge the superior officer in the room. Thank God the captain wasn't in uniform, or Clay would be really discomforted. He turned to Sherlock, and nodded again, giving him that smile that always made the detective squirm. He did this time, true to form, and Clay refused to laugh. "Mr. Holmes, pleasure to see you again as well."

"John," Sherlock waved from his lover to Clay, doing his best not to appear as nervous as he looked and failing. "This is Jaime Moriarty's….Hhmm what is your job title, or your name?"

"My name is Clay, sirs. I am Jaime Moriarty's lieutenant." Clay stated, not perturbed at all by the anger and frustration on the doctor's face. He wasn't a fan of Jaime, it was obvious. "I'm certain Miss Morstan and Lady M would extend their regards."

"Lady M?" John blurted out, still trying to figure out why he was here. "Mary is okay?"

"Lady M is Jaime, sir. Old nickname we gave her years ago after Moriarty forced her to wed Moran." Clay winced, certain that Jaime wouldn't appreciate him sharing that tidbit. She was touchy about the whole Moran debacle. "We never saw her as Sybil Moran. The M was for Moriarty."

"Moriarty forced his own sister to marry Moran?" John was aghast, and Clay smiled at him, appreciating the man's shock.

"I shouldn't have said anything, I spoke out of turn. I'm not here about my lady, nor about Miss Morstan, who is just fine by the way." Clay walked closer to the two men, Sherlock shifting to place himself firmly within reach of the doctor. Clay smiled at him again, and the smile grew into a grin when the detective dropped his eyes, and started to fidget with nonexistent lint on the white blankets.

"Why are you here then?" John demanded, and he snagged his trousers back from Sherlock as the detective got within reach. He shimmied into them, managing to stand unaided, zipping the fly hurriedly.

"We know where Woodley is hiding." He had both of them paying attention to him now, Sherlock's eyes boring holes in his skin, and the doctor immediately straightened, the set of his shoulders clearly communicating he was ready for war.

"Where?" Sherlock demanded, stepping towards him, one slow graceful step at a time, steadily coming around the bed. Clay wasn't threatened at all. The detective was dangerous, but so was Clay. He glared at Clay like he was looking for a lie, and whether or not Clay knew something he wasn't sharing.

"Warehouse down by the river. Jaime and I followed the Vicar there last week when he ran from Mycroft." Clay offered, not even bothered by the detective getting right up in his personal space. Guess he really, REALLY wanted his niece back. That was something Clay could help with. "My lady is on recon now, she's familiar with the layout. She'll let me know if Woodley is keeping Violet there. I'm waiting on a text from her."

"Sherlock, we need to go. Now. We need everyone, Scotland Yard, MI6, everyone." John stepped gingerly over to the table where the rest of his clothes were laid out, and got dressed in the black outfit from when he was admitted. His shirt was in ruins from being cut, but his jacket was intact, and he shrugged into it.

Clay watched the doctor, not willing to give himself away by staring at the detective standing so near to him. Sherlock was eyeing him like hawk does a field mouse, and it was doing warm and fuzzy things to his insides. Probably not what the detective had in mind, as this stare probably did render most people useless from fear. He wasn't most people though.

Clay's mobile vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it free. Jaime.

Sherlock came right up to his shoulder, invading his personal space even more, and peered intently at the mobile as he opened the text. Clay breathed Sherlock's scent in, and blessed his control, otherwise he'd be _showing_ just how interested he was in the consulting detective.

**He has Violet. I can hear her cussing all the way across the warehouse. Bring Holmes now. No cops, no MI6. –JM**

**Understood. –C**

"John, Woodley has Violet for certain. Get your boots on." Sherlock grabbed their coats, and waited impatiently as John stomped his feet firmly into his boots. "No cops, we need to sneak out."

"What the hell do you mean, no cops?"

**I finally found a Holmes I like. Good Lord, this girl can swear! –JM **

* * *

><p><strong>South London, Woodley's Warehouse<strong>

**Dec. 30****th****, 9:00 AM**

"Someone wake that poor excuse of a crime boss up and tell him I think he's a limp dick loser who couldn't cook his way out of an episode of _Breaking Bad_ if his life depended on it!"

Jaime snickered in glee, resting on her back as she stared at the ceiling of Woodley's warehouse, the massive ventilation system under her hiding her from view of anyone below. She was laying on the main line, which branched out into a system of ducts and ventilation shafts that ran the entire width of the warehouse, cooling every room below that contained labs or storage units for the drugs.

Violet's very entertaining curses and insults were a symphony of chaos, and Jaime laughed as they got even more inventive. The hacker's diatribe about her captivity and her opinions of her captor were making it hard for Jaime to stay hidden, even thirty plus feet above the main floor of the warehouse. She was loud enough that Jaime could hear her over the low roar of air through the ducts and vents.

"Never mind, I'm sure I can yell loud enough he can hear me. Woodley! Douchebag! If I find out Anthea is hurt or dead, I swear to God you'll get nothing from me but misery!" Violet was practically screaming, and Jaime laughed out loud, as now everyone was listening to the young Holmes rip their boss a new ass. She peeked out past the edge of the vent duct, and even the peons in the labs were listening, no one working. "I bet you couldn't find the end of your dick with a road map and a magnifying glass! My uncle's Sherlock Holmes, and I doubt even he could find it!"

Violet paused, and Jaime could hear people all over the warehouse break out in giggles, small snorts of laughter. None of the rooms below had ceilings, only walls. It was a giant rat maze, with Violet the cheese reward at the end.

Jaime rolled over, and eyed the exterior door closest to where she figured Violet was. There were a lot of echoes in this cavernous space, which made it easy for Violet's insults to be heard by everyone, but that also made it hard for Jaime to pinpoint her exact location. There were three guards next to the door, none of them at all anything close to professional. She could literally walk up in their midst and kill them all before the first one ever figured out how to point and shoot.

Violet seemed to be taking a break from screaming insults at her host, and Jaime cautiously got to her knees, making sure her guns, and her knife, were secured before crawling over to the nearest branch of the ventilation system. She couldn't risk standing up from her crouch, it was too likely that someone below would see her silhouette and alert the guards.

She climbed over the vents, gradually getting closer to the room she figured Violet was in, the metal under her hands and knees cold to the touch. The whole warehouse was cold, nearly as cold as outside, and up here in the rafters, it was colder still. Jaime paused, and looked out over the vent she was on, her breath fogging slightly.

Violet was pacing below her, and Jaime smiled. The Holmes scion was wearing the barest excuse of a dress, silver and flashing in the harsh fluorescent lighting. She had no shoes, and was clutching her hands to her shoulders, shivering even as she paced. There was a man in the room with her, and Jaime recognized him as the hostage she'd seen last week. Man was still alive, which meant he hadn't fulfilled the task Woodley kidnapped him for, which was in itself a ringing endorsement for mediocrity.

Jaime turned her head, and looked to the exterior wall of the warehouse, and the door being guarded by the strung out junkies. Clay and Sherlock would have to navigate a maze of winding halls to get to Violet, but with Jaime in the rafters leading the way, it should be easy.

Jaime grinned wickedly, and pulled free one of her guns, the 9mm silenced and equipped with an extended magazine, over twenty bullets ready to play once the show started. She had extra magazines, nearly a hundred rounds in total, and she would need them. There was close to that many people in the warehouse, between guards, strung out junkies testing the products, and the chemists. Woodley had several of his personal guards with him, ones that looked a trifle more serious than the fools waiting to accidentally shoot themselves in the halls. She was more concerned with the fools, as they would be unpredictable, and the odds of them shooting her or the hostages were pretty high.

Jaime tugged out her mobile, glad it was on Vibrate, and sent a text to Clay.

**ETA? –JM**

A heartbeat of time, then his answer.

**One block out. Found Mary. Dr. Watson is most aggrieved she is here participating. –C**

**She's not, Clay. She said she'd mind the SUV and listen to the police bands. –JM**

**So she just corrected the doctor. Handing out radios now. –C**

**No police and no MI6, correct? –JM**

**We got away clean. I watched them, neither one alerted the elder Holmes or the DI. –C**

**South entrance. Three guards. Double click when in position. They will be dead, breach after my Go. Hold 'til then. –JM**

**Yes, my lady. –C**

Jaime rolled her eyes, and furiously typed back to her lieutenant.

**STOP CALLING ME THAT. –JM**

* * *

><p><strong>Dec. 30<strong>**th****, 10:00 AM**

**Woodley's Warehouse**

Sherlock accepted the gun from the young merc, not planning on using it at all but accepting the wisdom of having it. John took two guns, both 9mm and silenced, the guns sliding easily under his jacket. Mary was sitting with her legs curled up under her in the back of the large SUV, a blanket over her lap, radios and a gun snuggled up to her.

Clay was sifting through bags in the rear of the vehicle, and Sherlock saw what John was missing. They- Jaime, Mary, and Clay- were packed and leaving London. It was apparent to Sherlock that Violet's kidnapping had detoured the trio from their plans to leave London behind. Sherlock sent Mary a glance, and she met his eyes briefly before looking away. Mary knew that he knew. She was listening intently to the woman speaking softly over the radio, the ear bud invisible, and Sherlock only knew Jaime was talking when Mary put her finger to her ear.

Clay was hurriedly tapping away on his mobile, and Sherlock wished he could see what he was texting, but he didn't want to get that close again. The young merc was way too distracting, and left Sherlock confused.

Clay handed him a similar setup to what Mary was using, and another to John. Both men hooked them up, and Sherlock could hear the younger Moriarty in his ear. He attached the cuff mic, and waited for John. His doctor was moving slower than usual, and Sherlock hesitated to ask him to remain behind. John was too ill still from his near death experience, and Sherlock feared he would be a liability during the rescue.

"John?" Mary called her former fiancé's name softly, and Sherlock saw the quick flash of blue as she looked to him before facing the doctor. "Stay here with me, please."

"What?" John paused in the act of attaching his cuff mic, and looked in askance at Mary. She leaned back on a large duffel bag, and sighed.

"I'm not feeling well again. Stay with me, please."

Even Sherlock flinched at the blatant manipulation of John's concern for Mary. None of them wanted John to go into the battle for Violet, because it was obvious from his pallor and eyes that he was fading fast. He was exhausted, and Sherlock feared John wouldn't make it out of the warehouse alive. So he let Mary play her hand, and heavily too. John must not be risked.

"Dammit, Mary…." John whispered, and he yanked the ear bud out, and leaned his hip on the vehicle. She patted him on the shoulder, and she tossed Sherlock a wink that no one else caught. "Fine, I'll stay here."

"Thank you dear. I've been alright the last few mornings, but all this excitement is making me queasy."

"Don't overplay it, Mary." John grumbled, and he glared at Sherlock as she just smirked. "Explain to me why we haven't called the cops or Mycroft yet?"

"My lady's orders to me, sir. Her assistance is contingent on them staying out of this." Clay stated calmly, his hand to his ear, and Sherlock tilted his head, trying to hear the assassin past the wind. Clay turned on a small handheld, and Jaime's voice snapped out into the cold morning air.

"I've located Violet, and the other hostage. Nearly a hundred on site, non-friendlies and nearly thirty hostiles. No sign of Woodley. Standby." Jaime whispered, and Sherlock stilled, wondering whether this was a mistake or not. He doubted Jaime Moriarty's sudden altruism, and he feared she would slip back into madness. It was Mary's calm acceptance of Jaime Moriarty back in her life, and the loyalty of the young merc that gave Sherlock some reassurance that Jaime wouldn't betray him or Violet at her first chance.

"There is a small armed group approaching the hostages." Static crackled, and Jaime said nothing, her breathing a faint shushing sound over the radio. "Damnation."

"What?" Sherlock demanded gruffly, turning to face the warehouse a block away, a finger to his ear, speaking into his wrist mic. "Tell me what's happening."

"Violet is being escorted out of the room they were keeping her in. Woodley's sent for her." Jaime growled, and Sherlock heard in her voice a slumbering madness. "I cannot maintain this position and cover her. He gets her alone, he will hurt her. Choose my directive, Holmes. Either I take out the door guards, or I save your niece."

Sherlock thought carefully, mind spinning out scenarios. They were here for Violet. If Jaime struck out in defense of Violet, her presence could be revealed, and she would be one armed rescuer against thirty armed thugs. If she took out the door guards, then Violet could be harmed before they got to her.

This decision was easy and difficult, and deadly either way.

"Can you protect her, until we get in there on our own?" Sherlock queried, evaluating their options if Jaime said no. There wasn't many.

"I can, with extreme prejudice. That means lots of bodies." She hissed softly, and even Sherlock felt the urge to shiver at the malice in the sound.

"Sherlock. Choose NOW." Jaime ordered him, her words jarring with impatience. "She's running out of time."


	54. The Broken Path

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but he certainly owns me.**

**WARNING: Violet's swearing, and some Violence. Oh, and Angst. Be careful.**

**A/N: Thank you to the editing genius silvereyedbitch for her valuable assistance. She is my rock!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 54<strong>

"_**The Broken Path"**_

**St Bart's**

**December 30****th**

Mycroft read the letter again, the fifth time through it not any easier than the first. He found it hard to breathe, and his fingers curled tightly around the thick packet of paper. The edges crinkled, and dug at his palms.

He read it silently to himself, his mind supplying Anthea's cultured tones easily. He could almost swear she was whispering these words to him, regardless of the fact her dying form was doors away down the hall.

"_Mycroft-_

_ The lives we live are dangerous, full of peril and sacrifice. Although I spend my days at your side, we both know the time may come when that is no longer a place of safety, but danger. I don't mind, truly I don't. Whether you are reading this soon after I have finished penning it, or decades have gone by, I know with everything I have in me that I regret nothing of my life._

_ I can regret nothing when it comes to you._

_ I was a field agent before I was called to serve at your side, and while my days spent abroad are fond and exciting memories for me, I didn't find my true purpose until I met you. Do you know some of my colleagues tried to talk me out of accepting the position as one of your aides? I scoffed at their fears, refusing to credit the rumors until I met the man. Until I met you. _

_ I don't usually become so maudlin, nor do I appreciate overly emotional scenes. Yet seeing as how you will only ever read this letter if I am past embarrassment, I have no fear in saying what I want to, what I need to. Forgive my urge to be selfish, and try to take these words as sincerely as I offer them._

_ I love you._

_I fell fast and hard, and so unexpectedly. From the first days of our time together was easy, a flawless mesh of abilities and expectations. I recall being confused, and aggravated, by the scurrying few who made it into your inner circle, yet still treated you like you were some inhuman monster. I saw the calm, icy exterior as they did, but I also saw the haunted eyes of a patriotic, deeply loyal man who would do anything for his land, family, and his precious few friends._

_It was that loyalty, that devotion, and your extraordinary intelligence, that proved to me your worth and value, your purpose in this world. You are meant for great things, Mycroft Holmes. I breathe easier at night, knowing you stand watch over us all. I am so proud to know you, and I know with every beat of my heart that you will never let me down, never let our people down._

_If the day comes that Fate and circumstance removes me from my place at your side, and that regardless of how strongly I may want to remain with you, I trust you, above all others, to know what is best for me. _

_If Death comes for me, Mycroft, and I cannot exist as I am now as I write these words, let me go. If there is a chance, no matter how slim, that I can fight my way back to your side, I trust you to have the faith and strength to give me the time to return to you._

_Whether I remain for all time your faithful aide and coworker, and never more than that, I am still content. If Fate blinks, and lets us be together as lovers, then I know I loved you to the exclusion of all others. If we became nothing more than friends, then I know we were the best of friends, as we can do nothing less than our best, no matter what it is. Surely we were the greatest of friends. I know we were, or that we could have been._

_I trust you, above all others. You are worthy of love, of friendship, and no matter the actions and decisions of your past, you are a good man._

_I leave my Fate, my life, all decisions to be made in your capable hands. All that I am is yours. All of it has been yours, since the first minute I laid eyes on you._

_As it remains to be determined if this is 'Goodbye', or 'til the next time', I will say farewell._

_Truly, Mycroft. Fare Thee Well._

_Anthea" _

Her voice echoed in his thoughts and heart, and Mycroft bowed his head. The neurologist was waiting patiently at the door, knowing that he needed some time before pulling his thoughts away from the dreadful trust implicit in the letter.

"Is there a chance she can recover?" Mycroft asked harshly, words strangled.

"There is always a chance. But the damage is severe, sir. Despite her injuries, she is young, healthy, and strong. She may yet pull through, but she may not be the same woman you knew before her injuries," came the whispered response, painful to hear in its compassionate tone.

"Then you are to do everything in your power to keep her alive." Mycroft growled, wiping at his face roughly. He lifted his gaze, and skewered the doctor where he stood. "We will reevaluate her condition after more time has passed."

"A ….. Loving choice, sir."

"Hopefully the right one."

* * *

><p><strong>South London, Woodley's Warehouse<strong>

**December 30****th**

"How is she watching the warehouse without being seen?" Sherlock demanded of the merc, a hand covering the mic in his cuff, not wanting Moriarty to hear him.

"Jaime is using the exposed ventilation system, accessed through the roof. She's been doing it since we followed the Vicar here." Clay informed him, eyes intent. The younger man was watching him with a focus that bothered Sherlock, and he tore his thoughts away, to the madwoman he was trusting to save his only niece.

Sherlock heard Jaime over the radio, asking him again what she should do. He knew that once he unleashed this monster, reining her back in would be dangerous, for all of them. Especially him.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock, choose now, she's running out of time." Jaime ordered the detective, hands clutching the sharp edges of the metal ventilation duct. She knew exactly what Woodley would do to Violet once he got her alone, and every nerve ending in Jaime's body was burning with the need to stop the imminent nightmare.<p>

Jaime crawled slowly along the narrowing shaft, keeping her progress silent. Violet was surrounded by three armed men, and the sickly wraith that seemed to be Woodley's shadow led the way. Violet was being escorted through the winding maze of halls towards the far side of the warehouse, away from the south exit she wanted Holmes and Clay to enter through. This mission was going sideways, and fast.

"Protect Violet," Sherlock ordered, and it unleashed in Jaime the torrent of rage that always simmered beneath the surface. Bloodlust and the desire to soothe an ancient pain boiled together in her heart.

"With delight," she growled back, and gave up subtlety in favor of expediency. Jaime switched the mic to voice activated, and checked one last time that her weapons were secure.

Jaime leapt to her feet, and raced along the vent ducts, jumping over junctions, ducking beneath low hanging support beams. She ran quickly, her deeply treaded combat boots sure and true on the slick metal surfaces. The air system operated at a low roar, and her footfalls would be hard to hear over the noise. She only had to worry about someone below seeing her moving along the ceiling, and alerting the guards.

Violet and the four men were approaching a door in an exterior wall, leading to a closed off area of the warehouse Jaime hadn't been able to scout yet. The network she was on branched away, but there was another system about ten feet out from hers she needed to get to. Jaime jumped from the duct she was running along, and felt a feral shiver as she soared over the three story void to land gracefully on the duct that headed in the same direction as the guards and prisoner.

Violet was below her now and just ahead, approaching the door that must lead to Woodley's private sanctum in the warehouse. If she got behind those doors, Jaime would lose her chance to get to Violet easily. She had no explosives to bust through a locked commercial grade steel door.

Jaime kept running, her breathing efficient, senses heightened by adrenaline. She was far enough away from the powerful motors that shunted the air throughout the warehouse that her footfalls were becoming noticeable. She was running too fast along the metal sheeting to remain unnoticed much longer, and she sacrificed the higher success rate of a stealthy approach. The group below would hear her coming in the next few steps. Jaime put on a burst of speed, and raced towards an approaching bend in the line, where the pipes went at a ninety degree angle above the doors before disappearing into the wall.

She saw Violet turn as she got closer, and the young Holmes caught of glimpse of Jaime's headlong rush into oblivion as she leapt off the corner of the pipes. Time slowed as her senses went into overdrive, and Jaime saw the world as if everything was made of colored glass, frozen in stop motion perfection. Jaime felt a rush of delight at the disbelief on the young woman's face as Jaime sped downwards, before focusing on the group of men she was hurtling towards. Violet saw her coming, and twisted out of the way, a short second before Jaime landed boots first into the back of the guard at the rear of the group.

Shouts and screams escaped from the men as Jaime exploded in their midst. Jaime thrust off the rear guard's back with her feet as she hit, feeling bones shatter in the man's spine and ribs, and she used her forward momentum to curl up into a ball. She flipped through the air, and crashed hard into the man on the other side of where Violet had just been standing. She landed with a bone jarring thud against the sickly wraith, crashing them both to the floor in a tangle of limbs. Jaime shrugged off the impact, adrenaline ripping through her veins, numbing pain and discomfort from the nearly three story drop and the resultant collisions. She pulled free from the junkie, getting to her feet. She was bruised and sprained, and the pain would soon be too present to ignore. She resolutely stamped down on the growing aches, and let her training suppress everything but survival.

She stepped on the junkie, relishing in his groans of pain as he tried to crawl away. Jaime ignored him in favor of the remaining guard, who had luckily evaded Jaime's initial body bombing. He pulled his gun, and she growled like a wild thing as she pulled hers free from her thigh holster.

The soft but sharply defined _pop_ of a silenced gunshot ripped through the air between them, and the guard dropped to the concrete flooring, a trickle of blood running from the small hole in his forehead. Jaime kept the gun up, and checked the hall, not hearing any indications of more guards approaching.

"Holy shit," gasped a voice raspy in shock and sounding like an advert for traveling to the States. "That was fucking hotter than hell."

Jaime dropped the gun, breathing fast, and quirked a brow at the young American woman who was staring at her in delight and awe. Violet grinned at her, and gingerly stepped over the bodies of the disabled guards to get to Jaime's side, pausing to kick one of them sharply in the ribs with her bare foot.

Jaime evaluated her, seeing the startling resemblance to her uncle, and her father. Jaime knew very well what Sherrinford Holmes looked like, and his daughter was his spitting image. Violet was dressed far too scantily for the environment she was in, and regardless of her spirits being high, she was freezing, lips blue, cheeks too pale, and she was shivering something fierce.

Jaime pulled the mic off her jacket sleeve, and shrugged out of her garment. It held her spare magazines, and another knife, and Jaime would have to make sure Violet stayed close enough for her to reload if needed. She swung the jacket over Violet's shoulders, and she found herself wondering at the rush of pink that ran over the hacker's face at the gesture. Violet snuck her arms through the leather jacket, and zipped it up. It covered her torso and arms, but her legs were just as bare.

"I take it you're crazy chick Moriarty? You are way hotter than your creeper brother, and helleva more deadly." Violet asked, grinning ear to ear, and she winked at Jaime, unfazed by the narrow glare the assassin sent her way.

Jaime clipped the mic to her shirt collar, and made sure it was still on.

"Holmes, I have Violet. She's intact, and delightfully flirtatious." Jaime said softly over the radio, and she smiled again as Violet sighed loudly, rolling her eyes.

"Can you get out?" came his reply, and she could hear the wind past the deep gravel of his voice. She looked up, and saw a darkening of the brittle morning light that streamed through the high glass windows of the warehouse. A storm was approaching, the sky growing a deep grey, clouds rolling in the distance.

Jaime didn't answer, her attention arrested by the sound of the large metal door behind her opening. She looked over her shoulder, and lifted her gun too late to shoot the junkie as he ran inside the room. A second later a claxon scream cut the air, the alarm tearing apart the relative calm of the labs.

"Dammit!" Jaime pulled her other gun, a weapon in each fist, and she quickly went over the mental map in her head of the labs. They needed to get out of this one hallway, or they were trapped.

"My lady! What happened?" Clay's concerned voice snapped over the radio, and she heard him running as he spoke.

"I got distracted by a pretty face, what the hell do you think happened?" Jaime snarled, and she listened as best she could past the alarm. Boots, and shouting. The guards were coming, and it sounded like all of them.

* * *

><p>The sky above was deepening in the grey tones of an approaching winter storm, the clouds rolling together, the wind screeching through the large warehouses next to the river. The pavement was slippery, the ice melt from earlier that morning freezing even as the two men raced headlong down the narrow alley to the door that lead into Woodley's warehouse.<p>

"The door opens inwards, on three!" Sherlock gasped out to the mercenary at his side, and the two men put on a fresh burst of speed. They leapt together, and their feet slammed into the metal door at handle height. A _boom_ and shriek of tearing metal was heard from inside, and Sherlock and Clay both hit the ground as the door swung violently inwards on its hinges. Shouts came from inside, and Sherlock jumped to his feet a second behind Clay.

The merc entered the building firing, two 9mm's flashing as he dropped two guards in the same instant. The third had been knocked back by the swinging door, and was behind the merc. Sherlock caught the guard in a chokehold from behind, and was forced to apply deadly pressure to the crucial vertebrae in the guard's neck as the man raised a weapon. A wet snap was heard over the screeching alarm that still sounded off within the warehouse.

Clay quirked a brow at him, and dashed away from the door, prompting Sherlock to drop the corpse and follow on his heels.

_Violet out first, then deal with Woodley. He will pay for everything._

"Back!" Clay stopped suddenly, causing Sherlock to collide with his solid frame. The bigger man backed up and to the side, forcing Sherlock flush to the wall behind him. Sherlock was crushed under the larger man's weight, and he watched over the merc's shoulder as he raised one of his weapons, neatly dispatching three guards as they rounded the corner, guns up. None of the guards had time to fire a single shot before they dropped to the floor, matching holes in their heads.

Clay was gone, his weight off Sherlock as the merc took off down the hall, halting at an intersection of two halls. Sherlock joined him, and peered down the identical halls, the walls all looking the same, the doors matching in every direction.

"My lady?" Clay called over the radio, and Sherlock ignored him in favor of figuring out which way to go. "Where are you?"

"Outside Woodley's rooms, still in the main section, north side of the building. We need to move, we've got company incoming." Jaime's voice came out tinny, nearly impossible to hear over the alarm.

"Hold them off! I'm coming, don't you dare get shot!" Clay shouted, and started to take off down the northernmost hall. Sherlock was looking up, and idly reached out a hand, snagging the merc's collar before he got a stride away.

"What?" Clay stopped to avoid choking himself, and Sherlock tore his eyes away from the ceiling to grin maniacally at the younger man.

"Don't follow the halls. Follow the pipes." Sherlock took off down the eastern hall, eyes tracking the ventilation system hanging from the ceiling. The system was designed to cool particular rooms throughout the warehouse, and ran in designated patterns. Moriarty had used them to get to Violet, so logic said that her path would lead them there as well, even from the floor. He just needed to follow the northern pipes, and do it as swiftly as possible.

Sherlock heard the merc following him, and Sherlock let him do his job as rearguard. The man was one of Moriarty's devoted bodyguards, and as they all were, he was highly proficient in killing and keeping their mistress alive. In this case, it was all important, because the longer Jaime lived, the longer Violet stayed safe.

* * *

><p>"John, stay here." Mary snagged John's sleeve as he started to pull away from the SUV, a determined and stubborn expression masking the usually gentle man's features.<p>

"Dammit, Mary." He shrugged off her hand, and breathed heavily, fists clenched and white knuckled. "He needs me, she needs me."

Mary knew he meant Sherlock and Violet. Mary felt the same for Jaime and Clay.

"John," Mary reached out again from where she sat in the rear of the vehicle, the police scanner humming at her side. "Jaime and Sherlock, even Clay, are the best people to handle this. I know you're capable, but you nearly died less than twelve hours ago. Going in there now will get you killed, get them killed trying to protect you."

She held her breath, watching the downturned face of her former lover. He was so tired, so pale, and she felt her heart flutter at the thought he nearly died. All because of one man's foolish obsession and greed.

"How can you sit here so calmly?" John asked her, and he turned his head, staring down the long narrow alley in the direction Sherlock and Clay had disappeared. "You aren't even fazed by this, you look like you're relaxing on the couch listening to music on the radio."

"I'm not calm, John," Mary whispered harshly, and she leaned over, grabbing one of his fists in her hand. She gripped hard, and waited until he looked back to her before continuing. "I am terrified."

"Could've fooled me." John scoffed, but he didn't sound as curt as his words implied. He watched her, his stormy blue eyes nearly black with worry and stress. "How do you do it? I've got my training, but he… Sherlock…. He makes me worry."

"John, Sherlock makes everyone worry, even the villains." Mary said with a wry smile, and she managed to pry a small smile from him. His shoulders relaxed, and she pulled him back to the tailgate of the SUV, holding his hand in hers. "I worry, too."

"About what?" John asked, staring at their hands, where she was rubbing some warmth back into his fingers.

Mary thought about it for a moment, and decided honesty was the best. It always was with John. He respected the truth, no matter how brutal or uncomfortable.

"I worry about being a mother, even with Violet's miracle solution of Clean Slate. I worry I won't be good enough, that she'll grow up to hate me, or hell, even be like me. Our baby's future would be better if she came out more like you."

John stiffened, and slowly lifted his eyes from the hands, meeting her gaze. Mary saw some of the past there, in his eyes, A time before Sherlock returned, and she believed in a future that truly wasn't meant for her. He searched her face, for what she couldn't tell.

"I don't worry about any of that, not with you."

Mary felt a tremor in her heart, under the scars of their bitter parting months before.

"You don't? Why?" Mary asked John, eyes never leaving his.

"You were willing to give our baby to me, and leave, just to keep her safe. No matter the reasons why you thought that necessary, you were still willing to do it, regardless of what it was going to do to you. That means you would do anything for our child, so that's why I don't worry about you being a good mother." The father of her baby gave her a weak smile, but a real one. "You scared the shit out of me with that thought."

"I did?"

"Yeah. Me, a single parent? Sure I have Sherlock, but he's a kid all the time too, so I would've been raising two instead of one." John smiled wider now, taking away any hint he may regret caring for Sherlock. Mary smiled, and huffed quietly in agreement.

"He'd make a wonderful father, in my opinion." Mary said softly after a moment of silence, and she nudged John's shoulder as he stared at her. "What? Can't see past the neuroses to the man underneath? Surely you of all people can see how wonderful he'd be with a child."

"Seriously?" John was incredulous, his worry temporarily forgotten. Mary let her smile grow, and squeezed his hand tighter.

"Yes, seriously. He's one of the most legitimate, brutally honest people I have ever met. Yes, he lies and sneaks and breaks the law, but so do I. His honesty is far more encompassing. He is real to a depth none of us can compare to. You told me once that at his funeral you called him the 'most human' human being you'd ever met. I agree. He's authentic." Mary leaned back a little, away from the wind's bite. "Children respond to that. He'd respond to that in a child, and see the whole experience as the best experiment of his life, being a parent."

"He's got a short temper, zero inhibitions, no social skills worth mentioning, and he's certifiable." John told her, still doubting her. He said it all with affection, as if Sherlock's many traits weren't flaws to the rest of the world. They weren't, not to him. "You telling me he'd make a good role model? Or that he wouldn't eventually tire of the whole thing and want out?"

"We all have days like that, John. He just doesn't hide how he's feeling. All the so called 'normal' people of the world suffer through life because we all hide how we really feel, what we think. Sherlock isn't afraid of being judged. He truly doesn't care what the world thinks of him. He only cares about how the people he loves sees him."

"Really?"

"Yes John, really. He cares most about how you think and feel about him. He has to remind himself to be careful of you, not just your safety, but what he says, how he acts. I watched him just now, before they ran off. You know I played you, making you stay here with me. He knew it too, and felt bad for you. But since he loves you, he let me make you stay." Mary winked at John as he gave her a half-hearted glare. "I think the old Sherlock, the pre-John Sherlock, would never have cared, or would have needled you about it. I know he would have scoffed at someone else being played like I did you."

"So yes John, I think he'd be a good role model for children. Teach them all the things parents somehow fail to teach their kids. How to be themselves, from the very start, and to not be afraid of who they are." Mary said at last, after a heartbeat of having John think so hard he gave himself another grey hair.

"You are evil, woman." John growled, and gave her a squeeze back through their joined hands. She grinned wider, and relaxed. John did best when he didn't worry so much. When he let the battlefield in his head settle to a peaceful calm, John could do anything.

"I know I am." Mary said truthfully, unafraid of the darkness in her heart, the red stains on her soul.

"What else do you worry about?"

Mary stared at him, and wondered at the wisdom of sharing. Why the hell not?

"I worry about Jaime." Mary offered calmly, watching his face. She saw the lines etch deeper in his face at the mention of the younger Moriarty, but he said nothing, his silence encouragement to keep going. "She told me something the other day, something that haunts me still."

"What…. What did she say?" John asked her softly, his curiosity warring with his immense distrust and hostility towards Mary's new lover.

"Jaime told me she no longer hears James Moriarty's voice in her head." Mary stated baldly, words feeling weird sliding off her tongue into the cold air. "She's always heard his voice in her head, ever since the day he talked her through killing Lord Blackwood when she was a child."

"How do you mean she hears his voice? Delusions? Schizophrenia?" John went into doctor mode almost instantly, and Mary felt a warm sensation spread out through her heart. Soldier he may be, but his calling was medicine.

"Jaime killed her stepfather. The man was a child molester and rapist, who abused both kids, right up until the day Jaime strangled him to death with his own tie." Mary told John, and even though John must know some of this, his face still went even paler, his eyes horrified.

"Dammit, I would have killed the bastard too."

"Me as well. So I don't judge her for that, nor her brother. But ever since that day, Jaime has heard her brother's voice in her head, telling her what to do, reinforcing orders, even demanding revenge for his suicide." Mary sucked in a deep breath, and met John's eyes without flinching. "The day the Vicar died, it was indeed Jaime who took that shot. She held the rifle over Sherlock's heart, and she told me that she heard her brother's voice in her head, screaming at her to kill Sherlock."

"Christ."

"She didn't take the shot, because she said…. She told me later that I broke something inside of her, something cracked, shattered. She heard me instead of her brother, and since that day, she hasn't heard him again."

Mary watched John as he pondered her words, and while she hadn't asked for his medical opinion, she knew she wasn't going to get out of hearing it. She recognized the look on his face from when they worked together at the clinic, when a patient was being idiotic, and John was hard pressed not to lose his professional demeanor.

"Mary, you're a nurse. Regardless of your original profession, you have the training to know she has issues. PTSD, Bipolar, and some schizophrenia. Sociopathic tendencies too, considering her reaction to emotional situations isn't normal. She literally is the most fearless person I've ever met. No one is as fearless as she is without something being seriously wrong, Mary." John said not meeting her gaze, as if he was worried how she'd take his opinion. She waited, wondering what he'd say next. What he was saying was all obvious to her, she just didn't let it impact how her heart felt for the other woman. He merely looked away from her, face grim and harsh.

"She said once that they were raised by a monster, and to survive him, they became monsters in return." Mary whispered, and her heart hurt for the lost children swallowed up by evil. There was a glimmer in the mad girl, a hint of light in the dark. Mary wanted that light to grow, to become a force of nature to rival the sun. "Jaime can never escape her past John, but maybe… maybe she can try to be more than what life has made her to be. She let me sway her John. She let Sherlock live. She's been roaming free for over a month, and done nothing more than defend me, you, and everyone else we care about."

John sighed, the lines easing around his mouth. "Mary." He sighed again, and finally looked at her. "She is mentally ill, and without treatment, without serious help, no matter how much she says she loves you, she will hear Jim Moriarty again. She will hear his voice, and she will listen. Jaime will eventually have to. She is a danger to everyone, including herself, by being free."

"I love her too, John. Very much. I hope you're wrong. I need to have hope for her, John. I was so close to becoming her, so very close. It's a miracle I didn't. If the Vicar had been more like Jim Moriarty, I think I'd still be killing for the CIA, and I'd be drenched in innocent blood. I stopped at the edge of madness, I never went wholly dark. I hope for her sake she isn't so far past the edge that I can't pull her back."

"I hope for all our sake's that you can, Mary. Or we will all suffer for it."

They both jerked in alarm as the radio next to Mary's hip came alive, and they heard Clay calling for Jaime, fear and nerves making the young man shout.

* * *

><p>Jaime breathed deep, relief swamping her abused eardrums as the alarm finally stopped shrieking throughout the warehouse. The deafening atmosphere made her head hurt, but she shook it off, and did her best to split her attention between the hallway, and the doors through which the junkie disappeared. Her whole body hurt from the three story freefall into the mess of druggies, and she was glad to have one less annoyance yapping at her control.<p>

"What's the plan?" Violet asked, and she was as close to Jaime as she could get without blocking her line of fire in either direction. "Other than not dying."

"Not dying is the crux of it, I'm afraid. I was rushed out of bed by this rescue mission. No time to plan fully." Jaime groused, and she shifted restlessly. They were trapped here, they needed to move, and fast. "Can you shoot a gun?"

"Nope."

Jaime grumbled in annoyance, and eyed the Holmes scion. She was fit, and even though she must spend hours on the computer, she had defined muscle tone. "Grab my knife, right thigh sheath, stab anyone you're not related to, or who isn't here to rescue you."

"Wow….. That's so creepy." Violet reached down, and tugged the long silver blade free from the sheath, the edge hissing as it dragged against the thick leather. Jaime was glad she seemed to know how to hold it, and she peered intently at the knife. "How many people have you killed with this?"

"You are a morbid thing, aren't you? Let me think about it, I'll tell you after we aren't dead."

"Gotcha. Escape drug lord first." Violet jumped at the sound of gunfire, and Jaime eyed the general direction it came from. It sounded like it was from the far side of the warehouse, and she refused to count on Clay and Sherlock making it in time. There was large number of people running in the halls, yet none were coming this way. Most likely too scared of Woodley to think it was safer with him than with the intruders. They were probably right.

"That's it, we're moving. Stay behind me, and don't cut yourself with that." Jaime moved away from the deathtrap of the steel door, knowing full well they didn't need to be locked in there with Woodley and his junkies. If he was even in there that is, but Jaime wasn't taking any chances putting Violet in the same room with a serial rapist who harbored a major obsession for her.

"Not gonna be a problem, Crazy Chick," the hacker mumbled, practically glued to Jaime's back as they moved down the hall to an intersection where multiple halls crossed. "You know how to get out of this rat maze?"

Jaime smiled, hearing the younger woman's words match up with her own thoughts from earlier in the morning. "Yes, I know where I'm going. The trouble will be getting us both out of here without getting shot."

They stayed close to the wall, and Jaime took them to the corner. She carefully peered out, and looked both ways once before drawing back, swearing silently.

"Oh fuck me, what is it?" Violet whispered, and Jaime holstered one of her guns, and used her now free hand to press Violet to her back. She felt the raven-haired genius shivering, despite the warmth of Jaime's thermal combat jacket.

"There's about twenty armed guards between us and the way out of here. Looks like they're blocking access to Woodley's rooms, and we're caught between them and our men." Jaime whispered back, and she started to retreat from the intersection, pushing Violet back the way they'd come. "I can't get you past them intact."

"If his guards are blocking access, doesn't that mean he's in there?" Violet whispered to her, pointing over her shoulder to the doors not that far away. Jaime nodded, wondering what she was getting at.

"He's a rapist, Violet. He will hurt you if he gets ahold of you." Jaime warned the younger woman, keeping her voice low so they didn't attract attention.

"I know. He tried last night, after he grabbed me from the club."

Everything stopped for Jaime. She heard a dull roar in her ears, and the blood in her veins chilled. She stopped, and finally looked at Violet, saw the pain in her lovely eyes. "He tried? You stopped him?"

"He was too high last night, too drunk, I'm guessing he couldn't get it up. He put his hands on me, and once I noticed he couldn't get it up, I heckled the shit out of him. I got slapped, then thrown back in with the moody chemist." Violet said softly, and Jaime let the young woman lean on her back, her face hidden in Jaime's black shirt.

Jaime felt a sickening rush of rage swept through her whole body, making her sway on her feet. Her lips pulled back in a feral snarl, and she turned to look at the steel doors behind which another monster dwelled. Violet shook against her back, and Jaime wrapped her free arm around the young Holmes, gripping tightly. She leaned down, and whispered into the raven locks.

"Violet."

"Yeah?" Violet mumbled back. They spoke softly, words so faint as to not exist.

"This has never been about your uncle. Never about Sherlock. This whole ordeal, since the day Sherlock went to the nursery and found Woodley's people dead, and the man came for you that night…. All of it has been about you and Woodley. He is your monster."

Violet lifted her face from Jaime's shoulder, eyes damp. She sniffled, and Jaime wiped a stray tear from her cheek. "Yeah, I can see that."

"Let's end this now." Jaime shifted, and reached down to lift the hand that held Jaime's knife, Violet's grip on it true. "You asked me how many people I've killed with this knife. The answer is a lot. But that's not what you should be asking. You should be asking if you can add a kill to the tally."

Jaime watched her eyes, the vibrant amethyst shiny from pooled tears. She saw Violet's fear, the shock of the last several weeks. Jaime knew exactly what happened, from spying on Holmes and his family the last month. Violet had been harassed, stalked, attacked, and kidnapped. She barely escaped a sexual assault, and only because her abuser was too drugged up to finish the task. Violet could've been murdered last night, just by provoking him in his embarrassed state. It was a miracle she was alive.

"Kill Woodley?" Violet said softly, and Jaime nodded. Jaime watched as the tears dried up, and Violet gave her a look that was purely Holmesian. "I wanted to on the train, Sherlock talked me down."

"Sherlock isn't here. You are. I am. Woodley deserves to die. Let me kill him. Better yet, let me help you kill him." Jaime offered, and Violet let Jaime hold her. Jaime had never done this before, yet the words and her intent flowed freely, and were true. Violet would never be free while Woodley lived. "And Violet…."

"What?" Violet asked, eyes gone vague, her thoughts spinning, thinking.

"Anthea is dying," she told Violet, and she felt the other woman jerk in reaction to her words. Violet stilled, and her breathing grew ragged. Jaime held her tighter, and found herself mourning with the young woman she held. "She's in a coma. Woodley did that to her."

It was then that Violet lost all resemblance to her uncle, and became her father's daughter. Jaime saw the answering desire for blood in Violet's eyes, the desire to destroy the ones responsible for so much pain. Jaime understood exactly how Violet felt, and there was an easy way to assuage the pain. A flash of a knife in the shadows, hot blood spilled into the cold air. Quick, easy, satisfying.

"That dirty piece of gutter trash drug slinging shit-bag of bile is going to regret ever hearing my name." Violet let the curses fly free, and she pulled back from Jaime, the blade deadly in her slim fingers. Jaime let her go, and grinned in delight as the sadness and pain fell from Violet, like shedding a coat once in from the cold. "Show me how, Crazy Chick. He's killing people every day with his shit on the streets, he's hounded me for over a year, he killed a poor boy's momma, and he tried to get Sherlock back on drugs. He's put his hands on me twice now, tried to rape me, and he fucking hurt my girl."

Violet turned to the steel doors, and stalked towards them with purpose, the blade at her side. Jaime followed, checking over her shoulder that they hadn't been spotted by the guards. They were still unnoticed, and Jaime caught up with Violet just before she reached for the steel door.

"Okay Jaime Moriarty, time for Assassin Ninja Training 101." Violet hissed at her, thankfully staying quiet at the door. Jaime tested the handle lightly, and grinned at the young hacker.

The door wasn't locked.

* * *

><p>"What the hell is she saying to Violet?" John asked, scrambling away from the SUV, holding the radio in his hands. "She's gone off the deep end, they need to get out of there, not try and kill a drug lord!"<p>

They had just heard bits and pieces of a conversation between Violet and Jaime, and John felt sick to his stomach. Jaime's mic must be on voice activation, as it kept cutting in and out. If they could hear this, Clay and Sherlock could too. Woodley had tried to rape Violet. And Jaime just talked Violet into trying to kill Woodley. In cold blood too, not in self-defense.

"John!" Mary snapped at him, and he looked up. Mary was glowering at him, her face flushed in anger. Her pale cheeks were getting red, and she was gripping her radio tightly. "He needs to die."

"What? He needs to be in jail, behind bars. Don't tell me your girlfriend couldn't subdue him if she wanted. He's big, but she's insane." John snapped back at Mary, and he glared when Mary got a silly look of pride on her face.

_The last few weeks have been insane. Why the hell didn't we call the police? We never call the fucking police!_

John growled at himself, and reached in his jacket pocket for his mobile. He yanked it out, and brought up Lestrade's number. He stared at it, and frowned. He wanted to call, but something was holding him back.

"John you make that call, there's no take backs." Mary warned him, and he looked at her again. "You had plenty of chances to call the police, to call Greg. Clay wouldn't have stopped you, as he would've had to gone through Sherlock to do it, and Clay couldn't hurt Sherlock for the world. You could have talked us all down from this, and called Mycroft the second we knew where Violet was. So don't get upset at Jaime, don't get upset at Violet."

"What…?" John gaped at Mary, and she glowered at him in return.

"Time to be honest John. We sent a highly skilled _assassin _with PTSD who's traumatized by a brutal childhood of abuseinto a warehouse to rescue another girl in danger, held by a serial sexual deviant who's obsessed. We all know exactly how Jaime feels about sexual assault and rape. Even you."

John swallowed, and flashed back to the night at Blackwood Manor when Jaime saved him from the men trying to rape him. He knew exactly how she felt. He'd seen it first-hand.

"Every single one of us knew exactly what would happen once Jaime got to Violet, and Woodley was anywhere nearby. I knew it, Sherlock knew it, Clay did… and so did you." Mary stopped glaring, and gave him a sympathetic smile. "I think Jaime is the only one who didn't realize it at all, not until Violet mentioned Woodley tried to rape her. She just reacted in that moment as we all knew she would. Up until then, Jaime was just trying to get Violet out."

John stared at Mary, then looked at the mobile in his hand. He was so conflicted.

He was right, but so was Mary. How could they both be right, and both be wrong?

"Think hard before you call. Once Mycroft and Greg get involved, this entire mess we're in will be past our control. And someone other than Woodley and his thugs could die for it."

* * *

><p>"Good for her," the merc said softly, listening to Jaime and Violet over the radio as they ran together. Sherlock paused his mad dash down the hall, pulling his eyes from the ventilation system. They were nearing the entry point Moriarty had used, a flat access panel in the roof directly above them in the ceiling.<p>

_Here is where Jaime entered, north is that way, that's where Woodley is, that's where Jaime and Violet are…._

_Jaime and Violet are going to kill Woodley. _

_Jaime is a match for him physically, and Violet has the intelligence to outsmart him. _

_A Moriarty and a Holmes walk into a drug lab to kill a drug lord….._

Sherlock walked slowly, shoulder to the wall, listening as best he could for more guards coming their way. He heard footsteps approaching, and tore his mind from the potential bloodbath of a drug lord to the next threat. He wasn't used to doing things like this without John, his mind was getting too wired to focus properly.

"I hear them, ten seconds." Clay whispered to Sherlock, and he nodded once in understanding. Their two man assault on Woodley's warehouse was going exceedingly well, considering that the techs in the labs ran away from them, and the guards were drug addicts. There were a handful of competent men here and there, but they ran once Clay started shooting, and the ones who didn't ended up neatly dispatched with an economy of shots that left Sherlock smirking.

Clay reminded him of John.

_That's what it is…._ Clay reminded Sherlock of a young John Watson.

_I find John sexually attractive, so it stands to reason I would find similar qualities in another man attractive too. Interesting. That's why I get discomforted when he smiles at me. I didn't notice the similar qualities until now._

_Now that I know, I can put it aside._

In the few seconds before the next group of unlucky souls met their deaths at their hands, Sherlock evaluated the whys and hows of Clay's disturbing effect on him, analyzed it all, and put it aside. He let the mild attraction go, and returned his thoughts to the task at hand.

_I need only one soldier with a good heart in my life, and his name is John._

Five men rushed blindly around the corner, and Clay stepped away from the wall, firing at the group. They returned fire, haphazardly firing as Clay dropped one, then two more men with as many shots, still walking calmly across the hall. His pace was too slow for a hyped-up junkie to comprehend, making the remaining two men miss as they fired. Sherlock plastered himself to the wall, keeping himself out of the line of fire as best he could.

The fourth man dropped his gun and ran away, and the fifth died with a discreet dribble of blood from his forehead. The body toppled to the ground, and Sherlock shook his head at the colossal stupidity of Woodley's men, and looked at Clay.

The mercenary was still holding his guns up, staring at the bodies on the floor. He wasn't moving. Sherlock paused, and examined him visually head to toe.

_What is he doing…..He's bleeding._

Sherlock pushed away from the wall, and ran the few feet to the younger man's side, just as Clay slowly lowered his arms. Sherlock grabbed his shoulder, and pulled back his jacket collar, both men seeing a rivulet of blood that was staining his dark grey shirt black with blood.

* * *

><p>Woodley paced in his private lab, hearing the gunfire as distant pops through the thick walls of the warehouse. He had woken up only a few minutes prior, hung over and pissed off, dimly recalling a night of celebrating in the limo ride here to his warehouse. He'd finally caught Violet Hunter, and he'd consumed enough drugs prior at the club, then alcohol on the way here, that he'd been severely jacked.<p>

"Master?" Peter was groveling at his feet, cowering. Woodley stopped his pacing just long enough to think about kicking Peter once more just for the hell of it, but the sound of another shot distracted him.

_ Who the fuck is attacking me? It's not the police, my contacts said nothing about a raid._

"Did you see who attacked you and took my little piece of tail?" Woodley sniped at the pathetic excuse for a human at his feet, making Peter flinch.

"I….. I did, yes master," whispered Peter, still hiding under his hands. He said nothing else, and Woodley growled in frustration.

"Well?!" Woodley drew back his leg, intending to stomp it out of Peter is he must.

"Master! It was a woman!" Peter cringed, still groveling.

"Was it the Morstan bitch the Vicar was after? Short and blonde?"

"No… no master."

"Well? Do I need to beat the details out of you?" Woodley snarled, and kicked Peter hard in the side, making the junkie roll across the floor.

"Master! It was… I thought I recognized her….."

"Go on then!"

"When the old master died… your master…. There was a woman… she was with him the last night he was alive. She disappeared the next morning, and we couldn't find her, and neither could Scotland Yard when they tried to shut you down all those years ago when you took over." Peter gasped, his words tumbling out faster with each flowing raggedly into the next. "I saw her with him, an hour before he died. And I saw her now, like a ghost. An evil, violent specter."

Woodley felt the epiphany like a punch to the gut. _Impossible. She is dead, he is dead. The Moriarty's are all dead. She can't be alive…._

"Tall, long brown hair in a braid, extremely pretty?" Woodley demanded, standing over the bleeding man on his floor.

"Yes, master."

_Fuck._

Woodley said nothing, all he did was stare at the door, and wait. He knew who was here. He knew who had Violet.

"Do you… do you know her, master?"

"Yes, I do." Woodley felt the first brush of fear in a long time, his skin crawling with invisible threads of cold clammy terror. "Jaime Moriarty."

"The one on the news a few months ago? Who bombed London? Jim Moriarty's little sister?" Peter was finding his distraction too good to pass up, imprudently asking questions that would otherwise earn him a beating.

"Yes. And it was her brother who put me in power of the old drug cartel. Damnation." Woodley spat, and began pacing once again.

_If his sister is alive, then he must be as well. And she is coming for me. Did he send her?_


	55. The Furies

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but he's got a hold on me...**

**WARNING: VIOLENCE!**

**A/N: Chapter is shorter than usual, apologies. Enjoy, read on!**

**Next Sunday, new chapter.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 55<strong>

"_**The Furies"**_

"So… how do we do this without getting shot?" Violet asked softly, eyeing the assassin as her hand slowly lifted from the handle of the steel door. Jaime tossed her a look, silencing the younger woman, and Jaime pressed an ear to the cold metal.

Violet opened her mouth again to speak, only to find a long slim finger pressing her mouth shut. Jaime closed her eyes, and focused her senses through the door, finger still on Violet's soft lips.

_Metal conducts sound so easily. Fools would be better off with a solid wood door… I can hear every rustle of shoe on carpet in there. Someone is crying on the floor near the door, another is about ten feet back pacing heavily, and I can hear footsteps of at least two more people. That's just in this room, I don't know if there's more than one room past this door or not._

Jaime pulled carefully back, and turned her head, dropping her hand from Violet's mouth as she did. She checked the hall, and saw no one, and grabbed Violet by her upper arm, pulling her back from the door.

"What?" Violet hissed, thankfully keeping her voice low.

"You were in there last night?" Jaime asked, tilting her head towards the door.

"Yeah I was."

"How many rooms? Furniture placement, guards?" Jaime asked roughly, voice low, checking both the hall and the door.

"Two rooms that I saw. A large sitting room, and his bedroom, I'm assuming there's a bath in there as he ran off to puke after his bitchy ass slapped me for laughing." Violet growled, and Jaime let a tremor of rage snake out from her bones. She would let this woman find her peace, in blood and vengeance.

"Furniture?" Jaime asked, and she carefully pulled her other gun. The weight of both weapons in her hands were familiar, reassuring. Jaime let the ease of prepping for a mission sweep away her aches and pains, the calm center of the raging storm of anger and frustration screaming just past her mental boundaries.

_I don't hear James._

"The center of the room is a clear space, about ten feet across, with a long couch along the wall on the right, a small sitting area to the left, and multiple arm chairs. There's a small bar built into the wall next to the bedroom door."

"Where would guards be at in the rooms?" Jaime gave up on being quiet. She could hear sounds of fighting approaching, and knew it was Sherlock and Clay. They would be too late to stop her if she went soon. Now.

"Probably next to the bar and couch, that's the only place people could be in there and out of the way. I don't think he'd let them hide in his bedroom." Violet whispered, her eyes shining, her fingers white knuckled on the knife.

_There's man on the floor next to the door. There's large man pacing at about the distance I would guess the bedroom door to be. The other men sound like they're near the pacer, but not between him and the door. Idiots._

Jaime's earpiece crackled softly, and she put a finger to her ear, trying to hear the whispered words. She went back a few steps and leaned on the steel door, so she would feel the vibrations of anyone approaching it through the metal from the other side.

"Jaime?" It was Mary.

Jaime's heart jumped hard once, and she bit her lip to stop a foolish grin from spreading as she heard Mary's voice.

"Yes, my love?" Jaime's whispered back, uncaring that everyone could hear her. She had nothing to fear.

"State mission objective," Mary whispered, the hollow sound of wind whistling along with her words through the radio.

Jaime looked at Violet, and found herself reaching out with her other hand, the guns holstered. She ran her finger over the faint bruises on the younger woman's face, and found her body nearly overrun by anger.

"Kill Woodley." Jaime replied, harsh and guttural.

"Mission objective is twofold, Jaime Moriarty. Take out the monster, and both of you come out alive."

Mary was on board. She wasn't judging, nor was she trying to stop Jaime from killing Woodley. Mary understood why. Jaime felt her lover's endorsement fill her up, easing her aching muscles and soothing the deep bruises she would be feeling in concert soon. Her anger receded, and calm certainty took its place. She could do this, this was nothing short of common. Hard target, un-scouted location, unknown number of hostiles present. Hardly worth the fuss.

"Understood, my love," Jaime replied, and let her hand fall away from her ear. She took her fingers from Violet's face, the young hacker watching her, not a trace of fear on her lovely features.

"You will stay here, Violet. This will be fast and messy, and you'll be in my way. I'll call you in when it's safe."

"What? I thought we could do this together."

Jaime leveled a glare at her, and Violet grumbled, looking like a child playing dress up in mommy's clothes and not wanting to go to bed. Jaime smiled, and reached for her weapons one more time. Both Jaime and Violet heard the gunfire, merely a corner or two away, a rapid succession of multiple shooters going at it in the maze of halls. Jaime put both hands on her weapons, eyes trained on the hall, waiting for a rush of bodies to come pouring around the corner.

As she did, she felt a rumble through the door. Jaime had just enough time to shove Violet away as the steel door swung out against its hinges, metal tearing. It propelled outwards into her side like a freight train obliterating a car on the tracks, throwing her down the hall.

"_Jaime_!" Violet's scream echoed off the concrete walls, as pain shot through Jaime's body.

* * *

><p>Woodley paced, and watched the door. The handle had moved the slightest amount just a moment ago, as if someone were testing it. Woodley paused, and thought he saw movement in the light trying to come in from the hall under the door, as if people were walking around in the hall.<p>

Peter was sniveling on the floor, to the side of the door, crying quietly with his face buried in the carpet. Woodley glared at him, trying to hear past the man's weeping, wondering who was in the hall. If it was Moriarty, he was as good as dead just sitting here waiting for her to come get him. He had nowhere to go from here; his bedroom and bathroom were just past the sitting room, no windows and no doors. He had made it that way on purpose to control access to this place, as this was where he kept all his records. His private lab and study were outside in halls, just around the first corner of the long hall leading to his chambers. If he were out there, he'd have a chance to escape, but since he was in here, he was trapped.

She was coming to kill him, he knew it. Hunting him.

Woodley watched the door, and motioned for his two guards in the room to get ready. Two shadows were blocking the thin sheet of light coming through under the door, and had been there for a few moments. Woodley tensed, and felt rage burn through his fear. He wasn't going down without a fight.

He was the Master Chemist of London, the city's biggest drug lord. He was no one's prey.

Woodley growled a wordless challenge, and charged the door.

* * *

><p><strong>St Bart's Hospital<strong>

**December 30****th**

Lestrade strode down the long hall, heading with a heavy heart for the room that Anthea was in, and Mycroft. Donovan followed on his heels, her shoes clipping at the floor, the only sound aside from the chirps and beeps of medical equipment.

He hadn't slept since yesterday morning, and the stress of the last twenty four plus hours was wearing him down. His side ached, exhaustion dragging on his mind, and his heart hurt worst of all. The man he loved was confronted by mind shattering loss, and Greg didn't have anything good to tell Mycroft since his reinstatement in the early morning hours.

_Nothing good to tell him, the news I've got is bad enough._

Lestrade paused in the hall outside Anthea's room, and in a brief moment of wanting to delay the inevitable, he looked across the hall to John's room. His bed was empty, the blankets mussed, and there was no sign of him or the detective. Sally peered around his shoulder, and wandered into John's room, brow creased, biting her lip. Lestrade knew, from years of experience in dealing with Sherlock, that the detective was several steps ahead of him, and was neck deep in trouble.

Lestrade met Sally's eyes, both of them acknowledging the likelihood that Sherlock and John wouldn't be in the wind long. Once Sherlock got the bit between his teeth on a case, the man was unstoppable. And that usually meant Lestrade would be getting a phone call any minute.

Lestrade sighed, shoulders tense. He wanted to see Mycroft, more than he wanted to breathe, but the agony he could sense even from where he stood was making his own heart ache desperately. It was only hours before that he had mused about how the loss of Anthea would affect Mycroft, and that her leaving would be a wound of terrible consequences. He dreaded to see how right he was.

Greg moved slowly to the door of Anthea's room, and he saw his lover standing at the foot of her bed. Greg sent a sorrowful glance over the young woman resting under the white blankets. Her face was bruised deeply, blacks and purples along her jaw and temple, disappearing under the bandages that wrapped around her head. He knew from speaking to the paramedics and agents at the club that when she was found in the service hall, she had been barely breathing, and her skull was fractured. He'd had Sally giving him updates all morning, and he heard that Anthea wasn't expected to wake up. She was dying.

"Gregory?" he looked up from Anthea, and walked into the room, heading to the man who called his name so softly.

"Mycroft." Greg reached out, and wrapped his arm around Mycroft's waist, tugging him tightly to his side. He rested his forehead on Mycroft's and the spymaster shuddered at the contact. Mycroft subtly leaned into him, shoulders sagging, eyes drifting shut.

Greg wrapped his other arm tightly around his lover, pulling them together. Mycroft hugged him fiercely, clutching at him. Greg sighed Mycroft's name, and rubbed his hands up and down the spymaster's back, doing his best to offer comfort and reassurance. Mycroft pressed their cheeks together, and Greg found himself feeling a rush of love that Mycroft could seek comfort from him, and so openly.

Sally was in the room, having found her way to the chair next to Anthea's bed. Greg saw her reach out and take Anthea's pale hand, fingers limp. Sally gripped hard, and looked down at the floor, obviously overwhelmed by the state the MI6 operative was in.

"Any news about Violet?" Mycroft whispered in his ear, lips brushing lightly as he spoke.

Greg hugged Mycroft tighter, and shook his head once. There had been news, just not news he felt like sharing with Mycroft, not right now. He would though, since leaving Mycroft out now would make life difficult for them all later.

"I found one of Sherlock's homeless contacts, in a roundup of snitches this morning. He was going to clam up and not tell me anything, right up until I told him my name. Guessing our relationship isn't a big secret anymore, if Sherlock's contacts know about us. Once I let on who I was, he practically tripped over himself in sharing everything he knew. Apparently Sherlock sent them all out hunting for Woodley yesterday, and this guy knew where to find him, but when he texted Sherlock about having the information, Sherlock sent back he already had what he needed. The snitch told me there was a warehouse on the south side of town where Woodley was cooking up his newest designer drugs."

Mycroft tensed against him as he spoke, and Greg felt the rage building in the spymaster's lean frame. His lover lifted away from him, and Greg saw a level of anger in Mycroft's eyes that had him thinking of Sherlock at his worst. The Holmes men all had tempers. Serious with deadly consequences tempers.

"Mycroft… I think I've found where Violet may be, where Woodley is. But there's a catch…." Greg murmured, framing Mycroft's face with both of his hands. "There's over a hundred people in that warehouse, thirty plus armed guards. This is going to be a serious operation to get her out of there, and we aren't even sure Violet is there to begin with."

Mycroft's temper settled as Greg spoke, and Greg saw Mycroft's eyes lift past his face, over his shoulder, in the direction of John's now empty room.

"Sherlock and John are already there, aren't they?" Mycroft asked softly, his hands gripping Greg's wrists.

"I think so, yes. Seeing as how they aren't here anymore."

"Then it's time we joined my brother and the good doctor. Woodley's reign as Master Chemist is over."

* * *

><p>Mary felt the police scanner hum at her knee, and she pulled her gaze away from John where he stood staring at his mobile. She turned up the volume, and cursed under her breath.<p>

"John!" Mary called to the doctor, his head lifting, eyes focusing at the urgency in her voice. "We have incoming, ten minutes out. Guess you won't need to call Lestrade or Mycroft- they're both on the way."

"That's good right?" John asked, walking back to her side as she jumped free of the SUV, shutting the rear hatch. "We need the reinforcements."

"Jaime Moriarty is in there, John! Remember? She's supposed to be dead? You want to explain this whole thing to Mycroft?" Mary was nearly shouting at him, and John just stood where he was and blinked at her, comprehension finally sinking in.

Mary glared at him, and ran for the driver's side of the vehicle, jumping in and starting it. John hurriedly got in the passenger's side, and she didn't wait for him to put on his belt before she peeled out from where they were parked at the top of the alley. The alley was narrow here, and the fit got even tighter for the large vehicle as she roared down the cobblestones, heading for the door where Sherlock and Clay entered the warehouse.

"Mary, I don't think it's going to fit!" John screamed, bracing his feet on the dash. Mary gunned it, the gas pedal pushed all the way to the floor.

The sides of the SUV scrapped the brick walls on either side, sparks showering up in a wide spray, both side mirrors disintegrating in a burst of glass. Mary kept the wheel straight, and slammed on the brakes as the SUV erupted out of the alley, into the small space in front of the crookedly hanging steel door. Mary left the engine running, and jumped from the SUV, gun in hand.

"Shit! Mary! Don't you dare go in there!" John yelled, and Mary ignored him, weapon up.

She kept her gun braced in both hands, senses expanding. She clocked the bodies on the floor, the sounds of gunfire in the far reaches of the warehouse. She recognized the rapid fire of FN P90's, weapons shooting at people she cared about. Her heart was pounding in her ears, and her stomach threatened to revolt. She sucked in a deep breath, and held it, letting her fear go as she lowered her gun. John joined her just as she stepped back, weapon ready at her side, eyes watching the long halls and the maze of disjointed walls.

"We keep this exit secure. This door is on the far side of the warehouse, out of the way and hard to get to with the vehicles MI6 and NSY will be using. Our SUV will block the authorities' view if they do find it. This is the door Woodley uses when he doesn't want to be seen, and when he has visitors. I don't think it's on the plans for this place, but I'd rather not assume." Mary stated firmly, and she looked at John, needing him now to pick a side. "Either help me get them ALL out of this, Jaime included, or I need you to leave."

Mary waited impatiently, watching John intently as he met her gaze fully, no hesitation.

"Jaime is risking her life to save Violet, and stop a monster. I won't say anything to Mycroft or Lestrade." John grumbled, gun in his hand as well, and he checked the hall, calm and in control. "But if she goes off the deep end again and kills innocents, I will turn her in…..or put her down."

John's promise, and his threat, made her heart ache, a deep throbbing under her ribs. He was compromising so much just by being here. If Jaime wasn't involved, John would have no trouble keeping his mouth shut and head down, fully participating. Yet Jaime was involved, totally, and her success increased the chances of everyone walking away from the upcoming debacle.

"I understand, John." Mary whispered. She silently added that she hoped she wouldn't have to stop him if he did try to kill Jaime. He was good, and she cared for him deeply, but he was no match for her, and she would stop him without hesitation.

"Sherlock! It's Mary, can you hear me? Mycroft's coming, and he's bringing everyone." Mary said quietly over the radio, hoping he was in a condition to hear her and respond. She got nothing but static back, and she worried at her lip, restraining herself from running into the warehouse.

They both tensed as the booming echo of metal on concrete shook the air, and a faint scream followed in its wake. Gunfire was still erupting, and Mary prayed that there would still be people left to save once this was all over.

* * *

><p>Sherlock grabbed the collar of Clay's shirt, ripping the cotton away from his left shoulder. The bullet wound was high on his shoulder, less of an actual entry wound and more of a graze. It was a deep one though, a straight line of flesh gauged out from the man's muscled shoulder. He was so fixated on Clay's injury he barely heard Mary as she whispered to him over the radio, something about NSY and MI6. His brain filed it away for him to process once the blood stopped occupying so much of his mind.<p>

"Easy man, I've had worse." Clay murmured, and he holstered one of his weapons, his now free hand coming up to grip one of Sherlock's, pulling his hand away from his chest. "What's that Monty Python line? 'It's just a flesh wound'?"

Clay chuckled, and Sherlock realized he was standing inside the merc's personal space, inches separating them. Sherlock grimaced, and stepped back, wondering why he was so bothered. Clay let him go, his hand squeezing Sherlock's once before releasing his grip.

Sherlock patted his many pockets, and pulled out a handkerchief, folding it into a large square, and handed it to the merc. Clay took it, and pressed in to his shoulder, staunching the thick rivulet of blood blackening his shirt. He pushed on it, all the while letting his eyes track the halls in every direction. Sherlock turned away from the sight of the bleeding merc, and spun around, walking back to the corner.

Four dead men bled out on the floor, crumpled where they fell as Clay killed them. Sherlock dismissed them, and peered around the corner. They were very close to where Sherlock was assuming Woodley's inner sanctum was, and they seemed to be in the hall a couple of turns from where Jaime and Violet should be. Sherlock leaned out just enough for him to see down the hall, and froze.

There were a couple dozen men milling about down the hall to his right, none of them organized, all of the clearly wondering what they should be doing. Half of them were nursing injuries, and Sherlock saw the guard that Clay hadn't managed to kill before he ran, holding his gut, bleeding from a wound in his side.

Sherlock sensed rather than heard the merc come up behind him, his breathing low and even, his steps sure. Sherlock was about to pull back, when he saw an open door in the wall across the hall. He could see into the rooms, catching a glimpse of what appeared to be a large wooden desk, and another archway that opened into what looked like a small lab. Shelves lined with chemicals and concoctions cluttered to small space, and gave Sherlock an idea.

_Expensive equipment. High quality furniture. Dog bed in the corner. Woodley's private lab. We're very close to where Jaime and Violet are. We've got about two dozen men between us and them. Good thing I'm not just a detective, hhhmmm?_

Sherlock pulled back all the way, and met the mercenary's eyes. He tilted his head back towards the door, and Clay peered out around him, clocking the door's location, and the men several yards past the door. Clay came back, and Sherlock cocked a brow at him, letting the unspoken challenge hang in the air between them.

Clay grinned, and stepped back from Sherlock. He silently discharged the mags from his guns, and reloaded, the soft snaps and clicks clearly showing the years of practice the merc had in those motions.

Clay nodded once to Sherlock, and the two men moved in concert, racing out into the hall. The men gathered at the halls' intersection shouted, and began to fire. Sherlock went first, and ran down the hall, and darted with a swirl of his long coat through the lab's open door. Clay was steps behind and covering him with suppression fire, both silenced guns flashing with each shot, so fast he appeared to be holding firecrackers, spent shells flying, raining to the floor. Clay kept firing until he leapt through the door as well, kicking it shut. There was bar in the wall, and Clay ripped it across the door, catching on metal brackets. It was crude, but effective, and no one was getting through that door without a battering ram or a bomb. Bodies began to pound on the door, men yelling to each other on the other side of the barrier.

Sherlock ran through the office space, down the lab area, and made it to a side door. He spared a quick glance, but pulled back just as a shot rang out in the hall. Sherlock dodged the next shot, and slammed the lab's door, employing a bar as Clay had done on the other entrance. Sherlock walked back to the center of the two rooms, the merc joining him. Sherlock was breathing hard, resting his hands on his knees, winded more by the adrenaline coursing through his system than the hard sprint down the hall.

"So… you know we're trapped right?" Clay motioned around the room, pointing to the two doors with his guns. His confusion was evident, and Sherlock chuckled as he straightened.

"We aren't trapped," Sherlock gasped, adjusting his black club shirt, the tight material making it hard for him to breathe. _Wish I'd had time to change before this rescue mission. Rather impractical to storm a drug den in black silk. No time to ruminate over clothing choices. Mycroft's going to be knocking really loud here any minute._

"Looks like we're trapped to me," Clay grumbled, perusing the small lab and office space.

"I have a plan, trust me."

Sherlock could hear shouting, and there was a loud bang from over the wall, in the direction Sherlock assumed Woodley's private quarters were. It sounded like a door crashing open, and both men heard a woman scream.

"_Jaime_!"

* * *

><p>"Jaime!" Violet screamed, falling back on her butt as Jaime's shove sent her flying. The steel door was thrown off its hinges as it was railroaded by the former cartel bruiser, and she barely escaped being crushed.<p>

Violet kept her hand tight around the silver knife, heart in her throat as the steel door smacked the brunette assassin, sending Jaime tumbling head over heels down the hall. Woodley followed, kicking the door aside as he swiftly gained on the dazed woman, Jaime gasping on the cold concrete floor.

"Damn it, Jaime! Get up!" Violet scrambled to her feet, pulse lurching in dread as the giant man lifted one of his legs, preparing to smash in Jaime's head. "You vile rat bastard!"

Woodley didn't even hear her, and Violet lifted the blade, running for his back, determined to stab every part of him she could reach.

* * *

><p>Clay leapt for the top of the great desk, turning in a single step and then jumping for the top of the wall. He caught the edge of the wall with his fingertips, and he lifted up, climbing the wall with his legs as his arms strained to pull him up. The burning in his left shoulder was annoying, but not prohibitive, and he managed to get himself up. He had just enough time to get a second long glance down the hall before the first guard saw him and fired, making him duck back down. The bullet zinged past where his head had been, and Clay grinned, thinking it was too close not to be exciting.<p>

Clay dropped, and backed away from the wall. Sherlock was doing something at the lab table, large glass jars and vials littered across the surface. Clay stopped, utterly lost, before he shook his head and pointed back over his shoulder.

"We're surrounded, and Jaime is one corner away. I caught a glimpse of her and Woodley. We need to help her, now." Clay snapped, and groaned as the detective ignored him, the crazy-haired genius carrying tubs and vials to the center of the table. "What are you doing? This is no time to get high!"

Sherlock paused whatever it was he was doing, sending Clay a daggered glare that reminded him of his old master. Clay tensed, and smiled nervously. Silver eyes released him, and Sherlock went back to his mysterious work, combining ingredients into several large glass jars. As soon as the mixture was in a jar, he snapped the lid on tight, and moved to the next. Clay watched, perplexed, as Sherlock made several jars, moving faster with each one. The pearly white and beige contents looked benign, but Clay knew enough about explosives and incendiaries to guess at what the detective was cooking. Things were about to get interesting, with a concussive flair.

"I'm not just a detective, my impatient soldier of fortune." Sherlock said, voice intense and deep, full of restrained aggression. "You happen to find yourself locked in a laboratory surrounded by villains trying to kill you, make sure you're trapped with a graduate chemist."

* * *

><p>Woodley turned in time to brush Violet away from him with one arm, sending the young hacker flying into the wall. She fell with a sharp cry, the blade spilling from her grip to the hard floor. Jaime shook her head, freeing her mind from the painful haze she'd fallen under when the door sent her tumbling down the hall. Woodley was going to kill her if she didn't get up.<p>

"Bitches! I'll break you both in half, and fuck you until you can't scream anymore!" Woodley shouted, his face a disgusting mix of eager glee and bloodlust.

_I am Jaime Moriarty, called Death, and I have never lost a fight. I will kill you, and enjoy the scent of your blood in the air._

Jaime snarled as Woodley lashed out with his foot, catching the impending blow with her forearms, using his own momentum to roll herself away from him over her back and shoulders, landing in a crouch before springing to her feet. Her hand went for a knife that wasn't there, and her guns were on the floor, knocked off of her during her impact with the steel door. They were both on the other side of the furious man coming for her, murderous intent etched across his rough features.

Jaime ran forward as Woodley came within range, her rage threatening to spill over past her control. Her right hook landed square on his jaw, snapping his head to the side. It was enough to temporarily stun him, and she pulled down on his shoulders, and planted her knee in his gut. The blow ripped a grunt from the big man, and she laughed. Jaime sprang away as he tried to grab her, knowing that if he got a solid grip on her, she wouldn't be able to get free before he broke her.

Woodley was twice her size in weight and sheer mass; he was several inches taller that her. She was faster, and her training gave her an edge. He was fast for such a big man, but his stamina was nonexistent. He had the body of a man who spent too much time sculpting his muscles instead of using them.

He got her good, under her left arm, snatching away her breath and making her stumble back from him. She relied on instinct as he pressed his advantage, letting her body move without worrying about getting air. She moved away from his blows, great showy swings that would make any man impressed. She wasn't; he was expending too much energy trying to clip her with a single devastating blow. He was used to back alley boxing matches that relied on brute strength, and not skill. She would outlast him.

The best way to win a fight, any fight, was to not fight your own body. Survival is the most important thing, and the body wants to live more than the brain does. Muscle memory with the driving need to live kept her from harm's way, and Jaime taunted Woodley down the hall with every blow she dodged, a wordless snarl of challenge and derision goading on the drug lord.

Her lungs recalled how to breathe just as she saw an opening, and she sucked in cool air for her starving muscles, gaining a burst of energy.

Jaime dodged a haymaker aimed right for her face, ducking under his arm, letting him overextend his reach, his own momentum carrying him farther than he was expecting. He fought like a man who wasn't used to women avoiding his blows, instead of passively accepting his punishments. She growled, and pushed off the floor, double fisting her hands together and driving them up into his groin. She made contact, a solid hit right in his crotch, and she followed through on the blow.

He gurgled in pain above her, and Jaime danced out from under him, as he grabbed at his crotch with one hand, the other supporting himself on the wall as he stumbled away from her.

"Jaime!" Violet gasped out, and Jaime spun around, to see her sliver blade flying through the air. Her brother's gift to her on her sixteenth birthday had been with her through every major battle and op in the long years since, and she felt a surge of confidence as it sailed to her hand. Jaime caught it, spinning her old and familiar weapon, giving in to the bloodlust that teased at the edges of her mind. A thick haze was washing in from the periphery of her sight, liquid-y red light filtering everything she saw, and Jaime skipped gleefully a few steps, stifling the urge to laugh.

_I can almost smell your blood, Johnathan Woodley. Your end is now._

Woodley pushed away from the wall as she turned back to him, and she jumped straight up, both of her boots crashing across his face. Blood sprayed, teeth flying, wetting the wall with crimson debris. Woodley groaned, and fell to his knees, and Jaime landed beside him, light footed and sure. Her blade moved in her hand as a live thing, with a mind of its own. He was panting at her feet, blood running from his mouth, and she giggled as he spat out another tooth.

* * *

><p>"On the desk, and don't drop anything!" Sherlock instructed him, and Clay didn't hesitate, jumping on the desk, boots skidding on the papers strewn across the surface.<p>

As soon as Clay got his balance, Sherlock tossed him a glass jar, and Clay flung it over the wall. He didn't know what he was expecting, but a split second after the crash of shattering glass, there was a deep _thump,_ and men began screaming.

"Heads up!" Clay snapped free from his shock, and caught the next two jars, tossing them over the wall into the hall. Men were screaming, and uselessly firing at the door, and Clay smelled the scent of burning flesh, and ozone.

It was chaos in the hall, and Clay heard running footsteps heading away from doors. Sherlock pried off the bar locking the door closest, and he tossed another jar out the door, slamming it shut as the glass broke. A deep _thump _made the wall shake, and Clay grinned at the consulting detective as he tossed his head to get a stray curl out of his eyes, arms full of homemade explosives.

"You do this on all your cases?" Clay laughed, easily catching another jar the detective tossed his way.

The scent of burning air and men screaming in fear and pain was inescapable, reminding Clay of darker times, but the memories were nothing against the maniacal delight on the detective's face.

* * *

><p>John heard the sirens, faint and far off but growing stronger with every second. Mary was nervously pacing just inside the warehouse door, gun still in her fist. She was cursing under her breath as she paced, eyes locked on the depths of the warehouse.<p>

"They're here Mary. On the other side of the warehouse." John called out, his words floating through the rapidly chilling air. The winter storm was brewing overhead, the clouds darkening by the second. John could smell snow on the wind, and the air was so cold he had to blink faster as his eyes dried out from the temperatures.

"Let's hope neither Lestrade nor Mycroft breach before we get Woodley down, and Jaime out." Mary's voice came out to him from the warehouse, tempting him to walk back to her side. "Jaime will not risk being taken by the authorities."

"You mean she'll kill to prevent herself from going to jail."

Mary met his gaze, and John swallowed nervously at the cold core he saw in her lovely blue eyes.

"You think Mycroft or Greg won't hesitate to order a kill shot on her if they learn she's in there, John?" Mary turned back to the warehouse floor, her voice strong enough now he didn't have to strain to hear her. "Jaime will kill to defend her life, and a lot of people will die."

* * *

><p>"I want this entire warehouse surrounded, every door and exit covered! Move it!" Lestrade shouted his orders, radios crackling, people running, vehicles squealing as they tore out in different directions. Donovan was next to his escort car, coordinating with the tactical team from MI6. Sharpshooters were setting up on adjoining rooftops, and there were enough police officers here to cover a royal visit.<p>

"Sir, we have three exits covered, reports coming in already. People are escaping from the building, claiming there's bombs going off inside and disjointed statements claiming there's an army in there tearing the place apart." Sally called to him as she hurried to his side, Mycroft stately bringing up the rear. Greg spared his lover a glance, hoping he was together enough to deal with the next few hours.

Nothing had surprised him more than when Mycroft left Anthea's side to join him in the assault on Woodley's warehouse, never mind that Violet was supposed to be in there.

"Shit, tell no one to breach. If there are explosives in there we'll just make it worse." Lestrade glared at the ground, then lifted his eyes to Sally. "No word yet on Sherlock or John?"

"No one's seen them sir." Sally replied, her eyes worried.

"They are here, I know it." Mycroft said, his words hard to hear over the roaring of the bitter wind. He leaned down, and spoke in Greg's ear. "My brother is in there, and where he is, John is too."

"What do you want to do then?" Greg asked, and he was terrified that any decision he made would result in people he cared about getting hurt. Woodley needed to be stopped, and Violet was in danger. Waiting and going were two terrible choices.

"I hate to say this, but give him time." Mycroft murmured, lifting his head, staring at the large building ahead of them. "He'll either save the day, or need saving himself. He's got….ten minutes."

Greg nodded once, and pulled out his mobile, dialing John one more time. Sherlock wouldn't answer, but John might. Greg just hoped the doctor was able to answer, and not dead.

* * *

><p>"Lestrade is calling me again." John said softly, and Mary sighed where she stood at his side. Both of them were in the warehouse, hiding from the wind just inside the doorway.<p>

"Answer it. Scotland Yard and MI6 are here, no use pretending they aren't. Ask them to hold off, give us time."

"What they hell do you want me to say to him about what we're doing in here?" John demanded, glaring at the mobile he was holding.

"Tell them you and Sherlock have everything under control, with the help of your mystery friends providing backup. Their 'assistance' is dependent on the authorities staying out." Mary stated, one brow up in a sarcastic manner. John _humphed_, thinking it was literally the truth. He was lying with the truth.

John answered the mobile, "Greg? It's John."

"Christ, John! Where the hell are you? Is Sherlock with you? I'm at Woodley's warehouse, we're about to go in, tell me you're not in there." Greg shouted over the line, and John winced, pulling it back from his ear an inch or so.

"I need you to hold off on what you're planning Greg. Stay out of the warehouse, please." John asked, hoping Lestrade would be able to give him what he needed. "We have our mystery friends helping and things will get very messy if the authorities start shooting up the place."

"Hold on a sec." Greg asked him, and John waited impatiently, hearing Greg speaking to someone on his end. It sounded like Mycroft, and John got really nervous. Greg could be swayed, but Mycroft was difficult to outmaneuver.

"John? Here's Mycroft." Greg told him, and John groaned.

"John? Who is helping you and Sherlock, tell me now." Mycroft demanded over the phone, words clipped, tone broking no argument.

John sucked in a deep breath, knowing he was risking a lot, and not just his prospective brother-in-law's fury. Mycroft could be vengeful, and John wanted nothing to do with angering the most powerful man in Britain. Yet for Sherlock and Violet, he would do anything.

"Mycroft, I can't."

"Yes you will, John."

"Mycroft, if you have ever trusted me, trust me now, please. I cannot tell you who is helping us. I need you to give us time, please. Trust me." John asked, Mary gripping his elbow, her eyes on his face.

"John," Mycroft was getting upset, the anger obvious even past the howling wind.

"Mycroft….the people helping us, the person who needs you to stay out of this…is the same person who saved your life on Christmas Eve. I think you owe that person this small request." John took a gamble, and hoped it was the right one.

Silence, but for the wind. John checked the mobile, but the call timer was ticking away, the call still connected. He waited, and finally he heard Mycroft's response.

"I would have died that morning without that sniper. I would have died in front of Gregory and my brother, and that angers me as much as it terrifies me, Dr. Watson. Tell our mutual friends, whoever they may be, that they have twenty minutes before we breach. No extensions."

The line went dead.

"Well?" Mary asked breathlessly, still clutching his elbow.

"We have twenty minutes before the whole of the British Government's fury comes crashing through the front doors."

* * *

><p>Peter dragged himself to his feet, staggering to the now empty door frame. He clutched the doorjamb, and blinked tears from his eyes. Woodley was on the floor down the hall, the evil woman standing over him, laughing. She spun a sliver knife that conjured images from nightmares, and eyed his master like she was looking for the best place to carve a piece off.<p>

_She beat him. A woman beat Johnathan Woodley to the ground._

Peter tried to speak, to call out, but the ache in his ribs stilled his tongue. Years of beatings and constant threats came rushing back to him, and Peter found himself turning away from the door just as the brunette woman bent down over his master. The blade glowed in the fading light, and Peter saw the blackening sky through the far distant windows of the warehouse.

He swayed on his feet, and turned back to the room, just in time to see the two guards remaining in the room make their way to the door.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock, Jaime….if you can hear me, you have twenty minutes before MI6 and Scotland Yard take the warehouse. South exit is secured for quick departure." Mary's voice came through the earpiece, distracting Jaime as she bent to one knee on the cold floor. Woodley was moaning in a puddle of his own blood, and the sound of his pain was drawing her in, a moth to flame.<p>

Jaime shook her head, and the red haze clouding her eyes pulled back. Her body shook from an overload of adrenaline, pain rippling her muscles throughout her whole body. She gasped, and wiped her hand down her face, waking herself from the blood-craze.

She faced the man panting through the wreckage of his face, bleeding on the floor, red liquid pooling under his head. He was awake, but the damage to him prevented him from doing anything other than breathing, and even then not well.

"Is he dead?" Violet whispered, huddling under Jaime's jacket, her voice tiny and afraid. Jaime shook her head once more, and stood slowly.

Jaime checked her mic, and tried to speak. She couldn't find the words, then coughed. She tried again, and managed to get something intelligent out. "I hear you, Mary. Woodley is down."

"Time to leave, sweetheart. Collect our friends, and get out now," Mary ordered her softly, and Jaime itched to obey, the smell of blood and fear-ridden man suddenly too much for her to handle. She felt sick and bored, and flicked at some of Woodley's blood as it cooled on her sleeve. She sucked cold air in through her teeth, and wrenched her jagged nerves under control.

"Understood, _mo chroí_." Jaime replied, and lifted the blade, hilt first, to the young woman at her side.

Violet gulped, and lifted a shaking hand towards the knife Jaime offered her. Jaime waited, impassive, letting this moment fall to the Holmes scion. She would make the last choice. Jaime had merely told Mary that Woodley was down, and didn't mention whether he was alive or not. Mary wouldn't care, but if Violet decided to kill Woodley, then Jaime would accept the blame. One more death on her nonexistent conscience was no burden.

Violet shuddered, and took the knife. She inched closer to the man incapacitated at their feet, and went paler. Jaime raised a brow in question, and waited. She could practically see the thoughts and emotions in the expressive amethyst eyes of the younger woman, and Jaime knew the instant she made a decision.

"Give me the knife, Holmes." Jaime murmured wryly, and snatched the blade back from the other woman. Violet gave her a sad, embarrassed smile, and Jaime laughed. "You're no killer, and he's done for. Couldn't hurt a kitten in this state. Let me do it if you still want his head."

Jaime flipped the knife, and nudged Woodley in the ribs, spurring a pitiful mewling cry from the defeated drug lord. Jaime grumbled, and turned away. She saw movement at the door at the end of the hall.

Her heart leapt in her chest, and she questioned in that infinite moment the reason behind her stepping in front of Violet as the first shot fired.

The impact was intense, a burning bludgeoning that hit with the fury of a thousand devils. Jaime heard screaming, crying. More shots went off, as she stood in front of her old enemy's blood, and took the punishment she knew she deserved.


	56. Reaper in Our Midst

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but I love him dearly.**

**Warning: Violence.**

**Pay attention kids, there's something happening...**

**Special thanks to silvereyedbitch, grand editor and friend.**

**Next chapter in week.**

* * *

><p><strong>C<strong>**hapter 56**

"_**Reaper in Our Midst"**_

**December 30****th**

"_Níl sé do chuid ama a chodladh, mo dheirfiúr. Múscail, anois. Beidh mé leat go luath.__"_

The whisper was inside of her, the words in the tongue of her ancestors. His voice was familiar, beloved. She heard him, each word a cooling caress, a bulwark from the debilitating pain seeking out her soul. She clung to each word, his accent stronger as he spoke the nearly lost language. It was the language he taught her, as they grew to adulthood in the dark underworld of crime and greed, lust and violence.

"_Beidh tú beo, ach ní mór duit troid ar sé."_

He shouldn't be speaking to her. A remnant of tender moments long gone, each word, every phrase lovingly spoken shouldn't be heard, much less exist. He was gone, his life as misplaced as his body, both separated and sent astray in the relentless pull of time and death. She had lost him to his obsession, and he was never returning. So hearing her brother now, as fires stretched out across her tumultuous thoughts and erratic emotions, left her adrift. An encroaching dense grey smoke spun out at the edges of her consciousness, and she struggled to recall why she shouldn't step forward, and seek out the man who spoke to her through the writhing veil of nothingness.

_Am I dead at last? Let me sleep, __mo dheartháir__. My brother. Let me join you._

"_It's not your time to sleep, my sister. Wake, now. I will be with you soon…"_

"_You will live, but you must fight for it."_

Pain rolled her, rode her will to dust. A clawed fist of agony unfurled in her side, her bones on fire, the flames of red hot misery tearing her apart. His voice was pushing her, prodding her from the depths, as persistent as the pain.

"Jaime!" A woman was yelling at her, in the storm of anguish she was caught in…reminding her of something. "Damn you, don't you dare die! Not for me, please don't die for me…."

Light. Cool air, wet drops falling on her face. The sharp retorts of gunfire, the soft _clink_ of shells hitting the floor.

"This is all my fault, all of it, I'm so sorry…." _Sorry for what? Who are you, to weep and beg forgiveness? Never apologize, it's a weakness… who told me that? Someone once told me that….._

Jaime's eyes flew open, adrenaline searing her muscles. She dragged in a deep breath, choking on something hot in her throat, fluid welling up from inside. Hands gripped her shoulders, pulling her up into a reclining position from where she was laid out on the dirty floor. Her hands were covered in blood, where they clasped tightly over her chest. Something was very wrong.

_I think I've just been shot. Was I dead? I was dead. I didn't think death would feel like that…_

"Oh God! You're still alive…. We need to move, they're still coming!" Violet gasped, tears streaking down her face as she hovered over Jaime protectively.

Jaime struggled to breathe, the panic in Violet's voice spurring her to sit up. Violet was trying to lift her, and Jaime saw past the blur in her eyes that the two of them were no longer in the straight section of the hallway outside Woodley's rooms. Violet must have dragged her around the corner, and Jaime flinched as bullets ricocheted off the concrete floor inches from her feet, sharp pale chips shattering off the hard surface on impact.

Jaime rolled, somehow finding her knees under her. Air was in short supply, each attempt to fill her lungs harder than the last. Violet was trying to grab her around her chest under her arms, but her hands kept slipping in blood. Jaime heard the sound of men running down the hall, and she knew they would both be dead in seconds. Jaime lifted her head as Violet tried to get her up again, and she saw a dead man a few feet away. Time was slowing due to adrenaline and the threat of her imminent death, and a part of her brain tried to understand why the dead guard was burned away over half his body, charred and blistered.

"_Cuimhnigh cé tú féin, Jaime Moriarty." _She was awake, in tremendous pain, and she heard him. Not like she used too, either. The words sang out from the past, from a time when he was less her master, and more her brother. She remembered his love, and the steadfast determination to keep them both alive as they fought to carve out a part of the world for themselves. His determination to live came to her with his words, the Irish a sweet, tender reminder of every wonderful moment they shared growing up alone.

"_Remember who you are, Jaime Moriarty."_

_I will not die like this. I hear you, James._

Jaime felt a rush of hope as she focused again on the dead man. His weapon, a fully automatic FN P90, was on the floor, inches from his hand. A mere foot or two from her.

The running guards were coming, so close Jaime could tell them apart now by the way their treads landed on the floor. Violet tugged on her again, and Jaime let herself spill out on the floor, arm outstretched. Her fingers brushed the cool metal of the gun, and Violet's scream gave her the energy to move that last distance. Blood spilled from her mouth in a choking wave of heat, but she managed to get her fingers around the grip.

They were there, a pair of men just clearing the corner, looking down on Violet as she tried to cover Jaime with her body. Jaime rolled, the last of her strength expended as she brought the weapon up, pulling the trigger. A flurry of bullets screamed through the air, the short distance between her and the guards reducing them to hole-littered meat in seconds.

Solid thumps of limp flesh and metal clinks of guns both hit the floor, silence falling as Violet breathed raggedly over her, the hacker's fingers clutching at Jaime as the assassin lowered the weapon. It fell from her faltering fingers, and Jaime let the darkness hovering at the edge of her mind come for her. Violet's arms about her head and shoulders was the last thing Jaime felt as her awareness left her, a whisper carrying her down into the depths.

"_Níl go fóill, mo deirfiúr. Níl go fóill.__"_

"_Not yet, my sister. Not yet."_

* * *

><p>"No!" Clay's shout of denial was harsh and painful, and forced Sherlock to run faster to keep up with the merc.<p>

Sherlock was mere steps behind the mercenary as Clay rounded the corner, and the volley of gunfire was deafening. Sherlock watched in grudging awe as Jaime Moriarty fired on the men trying to kill her and Violet, their bodies riddled by dozens of bullets instantaneously by the bloodied assassin.

Clay skidded to his knees, sliding to stop at his lady's side. Violet was holding her, crying wretchedly as the mercenary gently pulled Jaime from her arms. Sherlock paced slowly to the three huddled on the floor, his eyes scanning the hall for more threats. Sherlock saw Woodley on the floor next to the wall halfway down the hall, a pool of blood under his head. He wasn't going anywhere soon, assuming Moriarty left him alive.

"My lady? Jaime, no…. Please don't die." Clay sobbed, and the big man tucked Jaime tenderly to his chest, getting to his feet. He held his mistress as if she were spun glass, with blood dripping to the floor from her drooping hands. Her mic was hanging uselessly from her shirt, the wires coated in sticky fluid, tracing red lines over Clay's arms as he shifted her weight.

Sherlock lifted his hand to his ear, pressing on the earpiece, and spoke over the mic.

"John, Mary, we're coming out now. One casualty." Sherlock didn't wait for a response, as he strode around Clay and his mistress, grabbing Violet around her waist, swinging his hysterical niece into his arms. "Clay! On my six, now!"

Clay snapped out of his grief at Sherlock's order, and the younger man latched onto the surety in Sherlock's voice. He nodded once, and followed behind Sherlock as he led the way out.

* * *

><p>"One casualty…" Sherlock's words sent a bolt of terror through John's gut, making him press a hand to his abdomen in reflex. Mary groaned in despair at his side, and she swayed hard. He grabbed her arm as she paled, and it was the dread in her usually composed eyes that snapped John out of his own panic.<p>

They had both heard the staccato burst of gunfire mere minutes before, and the warehouse was eerily quiet. A few people had tried to leave from this exit, but Mary's warning shots at their feet had sent the strung out minions of Woodley scurrying for another bolt hole, presumably trying to flee before the ever-present police swooped in the building.

John steadied Mary, and squeezed her arm, getting her attention. "Medical kit?"

Mary dragged in a deep breath, and she collected herself between one blink and the next. "In the SUV, red and white duffel."

John dropped her arm, and ran outside, the bitter winds tearing at his jacket. He recalled the lack of a shirt under his black suede jacket, the icy touch of the elements driving him to move faster towards the vehicle. John opened the rear hatch, and dug through the bags and crates assembled until he found the large medical kit, pulling it out from under the other bags. He slammed the hatch shut, and sprinted back to the warehouse, medical kit flung over his shoulder.

John felt the first stings of falling rain, freezing as it struck the cobblestones and pavement, the building. Pings of tiny ice shards heralded his return to the dubious shelter of the drug labs, and Mary anxiously awaited him as he stepped back through the dismantled door.

"Sherlock!" John called over the radio, trying to get his lover to respond. He needed to know how bad it was before deciding to treat the wounded here, or if a trip to the hospital was necessary. "Who's hurt, and what's the damage?"

John listened, waiting for Sherlock to respond. It was only his absolute faith in Sherlock's ability to get out of anything that kept John at Mary's side, as silence answered his question.

* * *

><p>Sherlock refused to let his niece's pleas sway him, holding her tightly to his chest and carrying her through the twisted maze of the warehouse. Violet gave up asking to be let down after a few turns in the long cold halls, dropping her chin on his shoulder, her eyes streaming tears. He would be worried if not for the mumbled curses she threw at him randomly as he strode for the southern exit of the warehouse.<p>

Sherlock could hear John over the radio, but with both hands occupied in insuring Violet didn't get taken from him again, he couldn't answer his doctor. Clay was equally absorbed in his mistress, the remaining Moriarty scion still and seemingly lifeless in the young man's arms as he followed quietly behind the swiftly moving detective. Sherlock would catch glimpses of Clay and Jaime as he took the corners quickly, stepping over bodies and shallow craters in the floor. Clay was weeping, his light bronzed skin washed out by grief and what Sherlock could only assume was love.

_He told me that all of Jaime's men served her out of love. He meant it. A Moriarty, one clearly insane, inspired love and devotion. I do not understand. Love eludes me. But for John, and how I feel for him, I would not believe such a thing possible. Hardly tenable, an honorable man loving a sociopathic monster…._

_Yet John loves me._

_Even I see the similarities._

Sherlock tightened his grip on Violet as he rounded one of the last corners before the hall opened up out to the southern exit. Light streamed in, dimmer than it had been when they first entered the warehouse less than an hour ago.

Sherlock walked faster, and breathed a deep sigh of relief as he finally caught a glimpse of John and Mary standing together at the exit. John's expression of love and relieved annoyance soothed Sherlock's fraying nerves better than any high, and Sherlock would never admit to running the last few strides that took him to John's side. John fixated his attention on Violet, features settled into what Sherlock recognized as his doctor mode.

"Who's injured? Violet, you okay?" John dropped the red medical bag at his feet, hands reaching for Violet as Sherlock stopped walking. Violet immediately pushed away from him, and Sherlock let her go, his niece shaking from nerves and cold.

"I'm fine John. It's not me. Help her, please." Violet stammered, her lovely eyes overflowing with an emotion Sherlock had never seen in them before. If he was better at reading other people's emotions, he might conclude it was guilt. She pushed at John's shoulders, moving the doctor around Sherlock. He was watching John's face, and he saw the instant John realized that it was Jaime who was injured. His composure was shaken, and John swallowed roughly, hands clenching into fists.

"Jaime! Oh God, sweetheart no." Mary cried out, rushing to Clay and his mistress as the mercenary sank to his knees in the swath of pale winter light coming in through the open door.

Mary ripped at the assassin's blood soaked shirt, revealing firmly toned musculature, and two bullet wounds over her lower ribs on her right side. Blood freely ran from the wounds, and Jaime was growing whiter with every passing second. Her chest barely moved, her breathing labored and thin.

Sherlock was still watching John. His lover was transfixed by the sight of the young woman obviously dying on the cold floor. He was shaking, his whole frame wracked by tremors. His eyes were a stormy dark blue, emotions running wild in their depths. Sherlock waited, and he felt certain he understood the problem. John was a doctor, his oath to save lives first and foremost in his heart. Yet here was a woman responsible for so much evil, random acts of violence and the cause of hundreds of deaths over the years. To John, saving her was nearly too much to ask of him, akin to making him choose between the victims she killed over the years and letting her get away with her crimes.

Honor and his sense of justice were at odds.

It was John's choice. And if he waited much longer to make it, he wouldn't have to.

And Sherlock knew that John wouldn't be able to handle the shame in not making the choice before it was too late. Words from one of his father's many books floated out from the heart of his mind palace, the Kularnava Tantra one of those he remembered vividly, its words now stirring him to act.

_Death does not wait to see if things are done or not done. _

Sherlock moved, and took a single step to John's side. He captured one of John's fists in his hands, and brought their hands up between them. John shuddered, and slowly met his eyes. Sherlock saw the conflict deep inside his doctor, and it was tearing the good man he loved apart. John needed him now. John was always saving Sherlock, giving him an anchor. It was Sherlock's turn now.

"She took the bullets for Violet, John," he told his doctor, and John sucked in a deep breath of air, holding it. "Jaime sacrificed herself for Violet."

He saw it, like the settling of uneven stones in the foundations of John's heart. He chose, and the conflict was gone. Certainty came over the retired army doctor, and Sherlock saw him reach for that unflinching strength he carried with him always.

John moved with remarkable speed, grabbing the medical kit from the floor and moving to the injured woman's side. Sherlock took a few steps forward, and gripped Clay's shoulder by his leather jacket, pulling the younger man out of the way of the two medical professionals. Mary and John were working quickly, supplies from the kit strewn across their patient and the floor, both of them speaking to each other in efficient and clipped sentences. Sherlock left Jaime to them, and dragged Clay over to Violet.

"Is she? Please tell me she isn't…" Clay begged him as Sherlock dragged him unresisting towards the door. Violet was shaking, huddled in her borrowed jacket, and she gasped as Sherlock grabbed her arm in his other hand. "Please tell me she's going to make it. I just got her back."

Sherlock spared Clay a quick glance, refusing to lie. Jaime may well die in the next few minutes. Clay wilted at his glance, the proud mercenary crumbling under his fear and grief. Violet was shivering hard as Sherlock towed both of them to the SUV. Sherlock opened the closest door, and threw Violet up on the wide seat. He slammed the door, and moved to the driver's side. He opened the vehicle and turned it on, setting the heat to high. He closed the door, and went back to the mercenary who was standing listlessly beside the SUV.

"Snap out of it, now." Sherlock ordered him, making Clay jump. The younger man focused on him, eyes fighting to restrain more tears. "She needs more assistance than Mary and John can provide here. We have less than ten minutes to get all of you out of here before my brother descends on the warehouse. Call who you must to get her out of here, to get the three of you out of here."

Clay sucked in air, the freezing rain pelting them both. "Do it _now_." Sherlock's last three words snapped Clay free from his wayward emotions, and he immediately straightened up, his demeanor hardening, eyes clearing swiftly. He pulled out his mobile, and stepped away a few feet, dialing whoever he needed for an extraction team.

Sherlock went to open Violet's door to check on his niece, but paused when he heard Clay say a word that bothered him more than it should, speaking to an unknown on his mobile. The young mercenary whispered through the frozen rain 'Reaper', and Sherlock felt the chill the word generated chase across his skin, and burrow deep into his bones. His time abroad in Europe dismantling Moriarty's syndicate came back to him, the shadow of a memory filtering out through the dozens of missions.

_Reaper._

The world was about to change; torn between chaos and order. And it would take Death to decide which would win.

* * *

><p>Clay ended the call to his men with a swipe of his thumb, and he forced his hand to stop shaking as best he could. Jaime was still hidden from sight by the kneeling forms of Cpt. Watson and Ms. Morstan, and Clay tried to see past them to the lithe form covered in blood. He just needed to know she was all right. He had thought her dead once before, and those few days of misery before she stumbled burnt and wounded out of the shadows to collapse at his feet were indelibly imprinted in his psyche. He loved Jaime Moriarty, more than he thought it possible to love someone without sex being involved. She inspired his heart and loyalty, and he didn't need for his body to be engaged for him to know she was worth every ounce of his devotion.<p>

Clay tucked his mobile away lest he drop it, and looked to where the detective was standing beside the SUV, the window rolled down as he conferred with his niece through the opening. The resemblance between the two was striking, and Clay was glad for the distraction of their likeness to keep him from staring at the others.

Sherlock saw him staring, and Clay shrugged, walking back to the consulting detective. Sherlock tilted his head, and gave him an expression that clearly conveyed his desire to know what Clay's call had been about.

"We need to get to the top of the alley, down to the river. Two blocks. There's an empty lot, Medevac incoming. Our men are nearby, they're a few minutes out." Clay stumbled over the words, eventually finding the strength to stand taller under the cool gaze of the man who fascinated him.

"They are not to engage with Scotland Yard or MI6, Clay." Sherlock told him, and Clay nodded automatically at the order in the other man's voice.

"No, sir. Strictly extraction." Clay replied, and he dropped his eyes to the cobblestones at their feet. The rain was still falling, the air so cold the tiny droplets bounced as they hit the stones, the SUV. Their breath frosted in the space between them, and Clay was lost in the swirling fog.

Sherlock lifted his attention from him, and Clay felt the loss of it keenly in his raw state. There was something so reassuring about having those gimlet eyes watching every move, every facet of thought and expression Clay didn't bother to hide. The man saw so much, to a degree that was impossible for other mortals, and the near omniscience the man wielded appealed to Clay's inner needs like nothing else.

"Violet, change out of Moriarty's jacket. There's some of Mary's clothing in there, it will fit you. We need to move them out, now." Sherlock told his niece, and Clay could hear her moving about inside the vehicle, searching through bags. Sherlock turned back to him, and Clay found the strength to meet his gaze again. "Get ready to take your lady out of here, disciple."

_Disciple….but I'm not….. I am. I am now. Moriarty's disciple, for however long she lives. He heard me activate Reaper. What does he know?_

Clay nodded, and moved back a step so Violet could exit the SUV. She was staring at him, her amethyst eyes evaluating him just as Sherlock's celestial eyes did. She was dressed in some of Mary's clothing, the dark winter clothing covering her slim form, the clothes tighter on her than Mary. She even lucked out and found a pair of boots, and her shivering was gone, color lightly gracing her pale cheeks.

Sherlock walked away when the army doctor called his name, and Clay froze in place, convinced he would hear them say she was gone. That Jaime was dead. A slim long-fingered hand slid into his, fingers tangling together. He watched as Violet held his hand, the hacker squeezing tightly. She didn't say anything, her face a mix of grief and exhaustion. His nerves were settling, her regard as steadying as her uncle's, and he squeezed back in wordless thanks.

They were broken from their silent rapport as Sherlock strode towards them, Jaime in his arms. Her torso was wrapped in startling white bandages rapidly staining red, and Clay moved to open the rear door of the SUV. Violet sprang away, and Sherlock leapt up inside, depositing Jaime across the rear bench seat of the SUV. The detective backed out, and Mary took his place, medical kit on her shoulder, and Sherlock shut the door firmly as she settled in.

Clay sent Sherlock one last look, trying to tell the detective how he was feeling in that spare second. Sherlock held his gaze for a heartbeat, before releasing him. The detective backed away, and walked to the retired captain's side.

Clay tore his mind from the man he couldn't have, and raced to the driver's side door, getting in the running vehicle. He threw it in gear, and barely waited for the trio to move back from the vehicle as he tossed it in reverse. Clay refused to look back as he floored the gas, sending the battered SUV screaming back up the alley backwards, heading for the Medevac landing site two blocks away.

* * *

><p>Sherlock watched as the SUV disappeared, the roar of the powerful engine fading out. Sherlock had an idea of where they were going from Clay's description, yet he wasn't concerned about them being spotted or stopped. Mycroft and Lestrade would be too busy handling Woodley and the mess within the warehouse.<p>

Sherlock took John's hand, his doctor leaning on his shoulder. Sherlock nuzzled his nose in John's soft blonde hair, and breathed him in. Violet hovered on John's other side, and the doctor pulled her to him, wrapping his free arm around her, hugging her to his side. It was still raining, but Sherlock was warm enough under his coat not to mind standing under the soft stings of the frozen droplets. He patted his doctor's pockets, and pulled out John's mobile, dialing his brother.

It was answered almost immediately, and Sherlock could practically feel the rage pouring out from the mobile as his brother refused to speak. The line was open, and Sherlock could hear noises in the background. People moving around, vehicle doors slamming, and the ragged breathing of his very angry older brother.

_He knows it's me calling, and not John. John would call Lestrade before Mycroft. Not so bored now, are we Mycroft?_

Sherlock waited, not giving in to Mycroft's perverse desire to bicker. If Sherlock spoke first, Mycroft won the battle of wills. He ran the risk of infuriating his brother further, but as long as Mycroft was focused on him, he wouldn't be paying attention to the warehouse perimeter, and the SUV that was carrying a whole mess of trouble Sherlock had no desire to discuss.

"Sherlock." He smiled, despite the fury in the roughly snapped word. Mycroft was as impatient as anyone, regardless of his reputation.

"Hello, brother dear. How are you this morning?" Sherlock asked, letting his nose tickle John's ear as he pulled John in closer to his side. John glared at him as he baited Mycroft, but stayed quiet, and leaned his weight into Sherlock's shoulder.

"_Sherlock." _Mycroft was too angry. Sherlock had no desire to end up in jail, though he had a few escape scenarios he wanted to try at his next foray into Scotland Yard, it might be beneficial to be arrested today. It took John's heat along his side to snag Sherlock's attention away from his sporadic desire to experiment, and Sherlock grinned.

"Woodley has been soundly routed, brother dear. He may or may not be alive. I'm at the south entrance, small alley between the two neighboring warehouses. I have John and Violet with me."

"Is she alright?" Mycroft demanded, and Sherlock heard Lestrade's voice in the background, the sound of doors opening and shutting. Mycroft was on his way. Sherlock idly noted that his brother didn't react to his statement about whether or not Woodley was alive.

"Cold, bruised, but intact. Here she is." Sherlock didn't wait for Mycroft to answer, he passed John's mobile to a surprised Violet, who took it from him. Sherlock kissed John's temple, and let his hand go, turning back to the warehouse and stepping inside.

_There's still a chemist in here somewhere. We have a dog to discuss. And a formula._

John stayed behind with Violet, his niece talking to Mycroft, her softly spoken words trailing behind him as he paced away. The warehouse was darkened now by the gathering storm outside, the space echoing hollowly as he walked back the way he came.

Sherlock heard the doors opening on the other ends of the building, shouts as police entered the warehouse. Sherlock refused to hurry, tracing his way through the building's maze of corridors to a room with a door that locked on the outside. He had passed it in his initial entrance with Clay earlier, but didn't want to waste the time getting to Violet by releasing the chemist. He was safe enough locked away where he was.

He stopped at the door, and tested the handle. Still locked. Sherlock searched his pockets, and pulled out his lock picking set, before getting to work on the crude lock. He heard movement past the door, a single man moving hesitantly away from the doorway, to what must have been a far corner.

_Not a confrontational kind of man. Which is good, I don't feel particularly motivated to fight or argue right now. All I want to do is finish up here, go home, strip John naked, and not leave our bed for days._

The lock gave up in seconds, and Sherlock put away his set before reaching out and opening the door. He pushed it wide, and smirked at the gawking chemist in the corner. He was a tall thin man a couple of years younger than himself, and the resemblance to little Victor was strong, despite the bruises from several beatings and the gaunt appearance of a man kept alive on fear and meager meals.

"Carruthers, isn't it? Would you like to leave, or are you planning on moving in?" Sherlock grinned as the chemist bolted away from the wall, and ran towards him at the door.

"You're Sherlock Holmes! I'm a huge fan, I knew you'd come!" Carruthers came right up to him, and Sherlock froze as the chemist threw his spindly arms around his neck. Carruthers held on like a knotted rope, and Sherlock had no idea how to untangle the man.

"Ah…hhhmmm. Yes. That's me, delightful to meet you." Sherlock muttered, and patted the man a couple times on his shoulder before exhaling loudly in frustration.

"Oh! Sorry. I'm just glad it's over. It is right? Did you find your niece? She looks just like you. Wow, you're shorter than I thought you'd be. Your niece is tall though. Seriously, she looks just like you. You sure she isn't your sister?" Carruthers pulled back, words tumbling out over each other in excitement as his pale brown eyes sparkled in relief. "Sorry! I tend to blather on when I'm excited, I can't help it. I drive my students crazy and my wife too….."

Carruthers' mention of his own wife, murdered by Woodley's men, was enough to silence his endless ramble. Sherlock merely stepped back, and waved the now quiet man through the door into the hallway. Sherlock walked away, the mourning man trailing along in his wake. Sherlock heard the bouncing echoes of MI6 and Scotland Yard inside the building, and calculated they were still trying to navigate their way into the interior of the labs. Sherlock recalled the way, and headed for Woodley's private lab.

Carruthers was a ghost of a man, his countenance strained and cheeks pale, the contrast great beneath the bruises and cuff marks. Sherlock entered the drug lord's lab, and the stressed chemist remained at the doorway, head down, and hands in his pockets. Sherlock pulled out his mobile, and texted Lestrade and Mycroft, insuring that their people wouldn't shoot first ask later when they managed to get this far. Usually he'd let things be tense, enjoying the chaos, but he had a rare moment of sympathy. Carruthers would be in no mood to discuss Bear if he was too busy fighting off Scotland Yard and his brother.

Sherlock strode over to the desk, the large surface a complete mess, thanks to the large boots of the mercenary as he tossed Sherlock's explosive cocktails over the walls. It took him a minute, but he found what he was looking for, in a locked drawer of Woodley's desk. It was his private notes, and Carruthers' laptop. He laid out his finds, and booted the computer, fingering through the pages of the notebook as he waited.

"What are you doing?" The chemist asked, having finally drawn himself out from his melancholy long enough to notice the detective's actions.

"How far did you get? In your work? I'm assuming you didn't finish, as he didn't kill you." Sherlock asked vaguely, eyes not lifting from the screen or notebook as he read both simultaneously.

"Oh? Oh!" Carruthers took a second to realize what Sherlock meant, and wandered past the threshold, shoulders hunching as he looked around the lab and office. "I figured out what was making the drug collapse, and decay at such a rapid rate. I was at least another couple weeks away from synthesizing an agent to stabilize the drug, but I was trying my best not to get there. I figured he would kill me the second I did it."

"He would have, yes." Sherlock concurred, and finally lifted his eyes to pin Carruthers to the floor where he stood, his impossible eyes burning the man to the quick in their intensity. "Do you know what agent you would have used?"

"No, not really. I was trying not to think about it, I didn't want him to kill me once I finished."

Sherlock eyed the chemist, taking in his sincere eyes, the resigned tone, and the drooping shoulders. He was telling the truth, and Sherlock dismissed him. He knew what he needed to, now. Sherlock stared at the formula, written out in penmanship indicative of an older man, a generation or two older than Woodley. Sherlock figured it belonged to Woodley's previous master, the man who died just before Woodley took over years ago.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock stilled at the sound of his name, spoken softly, but with a hard edge, from the tall man at the door. Sherlock slowly looked up, and met Mycroft's stern gaze with an impassive mien, not responding to the anger he could hear in the undercurrents of his name.

"Mycroft." Sherlock replied, snapping shut the laptop, making Carruthers jump nervously. The chemist clearly sensed something amiss, eyes darting back and forth between the two men. Sherlock spied movement, and saw Lestrade standing in the hall behind his brother, his attitude one of protection for his brother, and nervous relief.

"What are you doing? And where is Woodley?" Mycroft asked him, his words delivered in the same manner as his brother's name. He was deliberately making an effort not to vent his anger and frustrations, and Sherlock estimated it would be another two minutes or so before Mycroft snapped and started yelling.

"I am perusing the notes of drug peddling chemists, what are you doing? There's a barely alive drug lord in the hall a couple turns away, though considering his state as of thirty minutes ago, he may well be dead by now." Sherlock casually waved his hand to the hall in the direction of where Woodley was left lying in his own blood, and Lestrade immediately took off, gun drawn.

"I think it best if that formula goes someplace it won't be used, brother dear." Mycroft sighed in aggravation, and finally entered the room, idly swinging his umbrella from one arm, long fingers playing with the handle. Sherlock felt the hard touch of his gaze on his face, but ignored his brother's suggestion.

"And that means not with me, but you? Perhaps in a clandestine lab somewhere, government lackeys deciding the best applicable use of a hallucinogenic narcotic that is both fast acting and highly addictive?" Sherlock pondered wryly, eyes narrowed as he saw the tiniest of muscle twitches near his brother's eye.

_Not so caring of me, but of the drug's uses. I see through you, brother. Remove the drug from the addict's reach, and use it for your work._ _Is that your plan?_

"Leaving it your possession is foolhardy and dangerous, Sherlock, as you well know. I'll be peeling your drug-riddled body out of a gutter in a matter of weeks if it stays with you." Mycroft walked to the desk, and imperiously held out his hand, his eyes darkening from an anger that nothing to do with his brother's drug issues and everything to do with his brother.

_I am not the reason Anthea lays dying, brother mine. Her killer suffers down the hall._

Sherlock let his impish desires run free, and took the notebook and the laptop in his hands. Mycroft smirked, and waited, hand still out. Sherlock walked around the desk, snagging a remaining explosive cocktail from the corner, the jar securely in his grip. Mycroft glowered at him as he walked away, to the end of the lab, that door still locked with the bar over it.

"Sherlock? Exactly what are you doing? I'll not let you get out of here with that formula, so don't try." Mycroft warned him, and Sherlock ignored him. He went to the rear of the room, and grabbed the nearest large waste bin, a tall metal affair that held a few pieces of trash at the bottom.

_Nothing flammable beyond some paper. We'll see how he likes my methods of securing the formula._

Sherlock stiffened momentarily as he heard John enter the room, his doctor's tread distinctive and lovingly memorized. _John will understand, and perhaps be proud._ Sherlock tugged the bin to the door, and carefully juggling the three items, threw the bar and opened the metal door, and dragged the bin out to the hallway. It was a smaller hall, and no one was in it, obviously undiscovered as of yet by the authorities.

"What is he doing?" Mycroft demanded of John, and John demurred quietly.

Sherlock left the door open, and made a grand sarcastic show of dropping the notebook and Carruthers' laptop in the bin, a large bang coming as they hit the bottom. Sherlock strode back to the door, and smirked at his brother, John at his side. He held up the jar to John and Mycroft, one hand on the door, grinning as he turned quickly on his heel. He threw the jar high, watching as it sailed to the bin, and he slammed the door shut just as the shattering of glass could be heard.

The explosion was amplified by the hall and the bin, and he could feel the blast through the door. The wall and door shook, then settled. A flurry of paper bits and destroyed electronic equipment rained down from the sky, and Sherlock grinned maniacally at his brother, the elder for once silenced.


	57. Nothing Secret Stays That Way

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, but he owns me.**

**A/N: Here is the final chapter of Part II. I'll be posting an epilogue for Part II on Sunday. Apologies for the lateness in posting, real life is a bitch.**

**It is with profound gratitude that I share this chapter with all of my readers, reviewers, and fans. Thank you all for the boundless support and company as I've stretched my literary wings after ten years of hiding from my talents. **

**Warning: Violence, sadness, grief, love. Pain. **

**Special thanks to Silvereyedbitch for her editing genius. May the ending suit us all.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 57<strong>

"_**Nothing Secret Stays That Way"**_

**December 30****th**

"Out of the way," Greg said as he shouldered his way through the crowd clustered outside what looked to be a war zone in the long hall near Woodley's private lab. People both MI6 and NSY parted for him, glancing nervously at his face before whispering quietly to their companions. Greg eventually broke through the massed bodies, and stared down at the once formidable man named Johnathan Woodley.

Someone had moved Woodley to his back, face broken and bruised severely, eyes swollen shut. It looked like he got hit in the face with a shovel or kicked by a horse, and blood still dribbled from his nose and mouth. Greg found zero compassion in his heart as he noted the slow rise and fall of Woodley's chest. Whoever beat him was one hell of a fighter, if not multiple people to take down a man of his size and stature. Woodley was a beast, even bloody and unconscious on the floor, covered in dust and dirt, fine clothing ruined along with his head. Greg was equally impressed and terrified by the possibility of there being a bigger bruiser out there than the man beaten on the floor.

Greg looked away, up the hall to a frame bereft of its door, and he could see into a posh private lounge from where he stood. Greg stepped over Woodley, doing his best to avoid the blood on the floor, and strode towards the end of the hall. From the way everyone was clustered around the once mighty Master Chemist, Greg doubted the rooms had been cleared yet. His curiosity and refusal to let a potential threat go prompted him to walk faster down the hall.

"Sir, do you want us to get an ambulance?" It was one of his officers, and Greg didn't bother turning around.

"It's not a priority. Just keep the labs secure, make sure we have everyone. Make sure Director Holmes is escorted at all times," Greg instructed over his shoulder, waving his hand dismissively. "Call one, I guess."

Greg didn't wait for a response, pulling his service weapon and bringing it up, swinging into the lounge, clearing the corners. He lasered in on a grey bundle of skinny limbs and shaking muscles that huddled at the feet of a tackily upholstered fainting couch. He kept his gun pointed at the figure weeping on the floor, and took a few steps to peer cautiously into the bedroom and its attached bath. He was certain there was no one else, and went back to examining the person crying softly. Greg figured the other person, possibly a man, wasn't even aware that Greg was there.

"Hey you. Hands up, slowly," Greg said gently, gun trained at the wreckage of a human form. The crying quieted, and a battered and disconsolate face lifted from spindly arms to blink at him. Tears ran down a dirty face, and Greg sighed silently, seeing the telling signs of hardcore addiction and a serious lack of personal care. "No sudden moves, stand up slowly, hands where I can see them."

"Oh…okay," sniffled the junkie, and he continued to cry, using the couch to get to his feet, swaying as he did. He steadied himself, and jerkily raised his hands, moving as if his ribs were pained. Greg scanned him quickly, and saw no immediate signs of a weapon.

"Hands behind your head, lace your fingers, and turn around. Slowly." Greg instructed, and the way the junkie moved told Greg he'd be through the procedure before. Lifelong offender from everything he was seeing. The junkie assumed the position, and Greg moved in on him, holding his hands to his head as he got out his cuffs and holstered his weapon, _snicking_ one wrist before lowering the thin man's arms down and behind his back, securing both hands.

_Thank you God. Sherlock never got this bad. This man is nothing left but a shadow of what he once was._

Greg felt his heart contract at the tears still pouring down the thin man's face, and he instinctively knew that this brittle vestige of a human being was no threat. He gentled his actions, and loosened the cuffs a fraction, earning him a surprised and appreciative glance from the junkie. That quick glance was enough to tell Greg that this man was unused to compassion from anyone, much less the police.

_He may be a junkie, possibly a criminal or worse, but I doubt he deserves more cruelty._

Greg held the man by his wrists, and walked him from the room. "You have a name?" Greg asked him, as they neared the thinned out crowd in the hall. Woodley was being loaded into a stretcher, several officers attempting to manhandle the stricken drug lord into position.

"My name is Peter, sir." The junkie told him respectfully. A junkie with manners. Or just a healthy urge not to anger someone in authority. Greg could work with both.

"We'll sort you out at the Yard, Peter. Cooperate 'til then, you'll be fine."

"Yes sir, thank you." Peter whispered, and as they passed Woodley on the stretcher, Greg felt him tense, moving a discreet distance form the drug lord. Greg watched him, but he made no move to escape. Peter refused the watch the drug lord, and Greg made a mental note to talk to Peter later at the Yard. There was something in the way he acted, and where Greg had found him, that made him believe that Peter was more than a junkie. He doubted Woodley would let any regular user hang out inside his private quarters.

_Peter might have seen what happened here. He may be able to tell us who our 'mystery' friends are. I'll tell Mycroft after he gets done antagonizing his brother._

Greg handed Peter over to a uniformed officer, and Greg smiled reassuringly at the ruined man. He seemed to shrink in on himself the second Greg passed him over.

"Don't look so sad, Peter. This officer will be very nice to you, just you wait and see," Greg said, eyeing the uniform sternly in warning. The man blanched, and adjusted his hold to a more polite grip on the junkie. Peter gave him a surprised look, a tiny hint of a long forgotten smile appearing in a flash before disappearing. At least the tears had stopped. "Go on with you now. I'll talk to you later at the Yard. No more crying, yeah?"

"Of course sir, I'll try my best," Peter whispered, and Greg called out softly as the uniform led him away.

"That's all any of us can do, Peter."

Greg watched as the thin man was taken away, to join the numerous others under arrest and being taken to the Yard for questioning. It had been a matter of minutes to secure the majority of the compound, allowing Greg to deem it safe enough for Mycroft to accompany him inside the warehouse. Considering they breached with over a hundred armed officers and agents, having Mycroft in the rearguard hadn't been much of a risk.

_I need to talk Mycroft into carrying a weapon. I know he doesn't like to, but maybe he will for me. I'm certain he's certified to carry, but I don't think he's ever been a field agent. Something about Mycroft Holmes says he's always been the one calling the shots, never the one taking them._

Finding John and Violet at the south entrance had done much to soothe Greg's worries and his temper, yet Mycroft remained frigidly aloof, his anger a tangible thing. Seeing Violet relatively unharmed and happy to see him had briefly cracked the Iceman's armor, but it was promptly in back place after his niece's hug ended.

_Maybe Mycroft with a weapon isn't a good idea. He might shoot Sherlock._

A nameless aide had at some point in the early morning hours raided Mycroft's closet, bringing the spymaster a change of clothing to the hospital before they departed for Woodley's warehouse. Mycroft changed, wearing his finest grey suit and red silk tie, his deep charcoal great coat and umbrella all reinforcing the impression of Mycroft's reputation as the Iceman. For Greg, he saw all the fine trappings for what they really were; Mycroft's armor. The spymaster was spiraling, and he clung to familiar things to secure his tenuous emotional control. Greg held his tongue, knowing his lover needed every reassurance he could get, even if it came from a fresh change of clothing and an umbrella he might not need.

Greg moved aside, and let the stretcher and the medics pass him with Woodley still unconscious.

_Damn it, he's still breathing. Hopefully he dies on the way to the hospital._

"I want around the clock guards on Woodley, in the room at the hospital and the ambulance. He is not to be alone," Greg ordered, and several officers peeled off from the crowds milling about to follow the stretcher down the hall.

_One of the year's largest joint ops and people are standing around chatting. Donovan and I are going to have a talk. I'm gone for two months and things go to shit._

Greg waited as the crowds gradually drifted away under his glares, his unspoken disapproval at the lackluster work ethic he was seeing making both the MI6 agents and his officers flee. As the last of them left to be useful, Greg caught the glimmer of something silver on the floor, buried under dirt and spent shell casings.

Greg took a step forward, peering intently. He thought it was a knife, the handle and blade long, and it shone even in the haphazard lighting in the hall. There was something about it that piqued his interest, made his brow furrow as a memory tried to crawl free from his subconscious. He was about to lean down and lift it from the debris on the floor when an explosion rocked the relative quiet of the warehouse.

A stunned silence gripped the building, as everyone froze, trying to pinpoint exactly what happened and where. Lestrade was reaching for his gun and radio when he heard a shout that reached every corner of the decrepit building.

"_**WILLIAM SHERLOCK SCOTT HOLMES! STOP BLOWING THINGS UP!"**_

Mycroft's shout came on the heels of the explosion, instantly calming his racing heart and making him chuckle. He took off down the hall, the knife forgotten as he hurried to keep his lover and one of his best mates from killing each other.

_That's one hell of a name, Sherlock._

* * *

><p>The explosion faded away until not even its echoes remained, and Violet grinned, thinking that her uncle had given her the perfect distraction.<p>

Violet waited, impatient for Greg to leave. No one noticed her, where she was hiding around the corner, not far from where Jaime defended them both before she passed out from her wounds. Violet stared at the blood stained floor, and looked around one last time, making sure she was alone. No one was watching, and she quickly sprayed the blood stains on the floor with bleach she found in one of the labs. She made sure to cover the pool where Jaime had been laying in her arms, and the trail leading to the spot where Jaime took the bullets meant for Violet.

Violet sprayed every drop of blood she could see, not bothering to distinguish between Woodley's blood and Jaime's. Destroying DNA trace was essential to maintaining her peace of mind, and protecting her family. It was imperative she got it all, or a faceless crime scene tech might discover that Jaime Moriarty was alive. And that would be all levels of bad, especially for Sherlock.

_She didn't have to save me. No matter what she thinks she owed me for helping Mary, she didn't have to save me. She could die. I don't even know if she's still alive. She took those bullets for me. No hesitation, she stepped in front of me and got shot twice._

_I owe her. Big time. Fucking huge._

Violet sprayed until the bottle was empty, the stench of bleach strong in her nostrils. She sneezed, and wiping at her face, Violet spied Jaime's knife glittering on the floor. Violet looked over her shoulder, and quickly darted down, snatching up the wicked blade. She gingerly tucked it in her waistband at her back, under Mary's borrowed jacket. She sent up a quick prayer that she wouldn't stab herself with it.

She secured the knife, adjusting the jacket to cover it, and looked around. She saw Jaime's two guns not far away on the floor, and ran for them. She didn't know much about guns, but knew enough to wipe the weapons down with a corner of her shirt, erasing fingerprints. She ejected the mags and took them, figuring that there would be fingerprints on the bullets she couldn't reach. The guns fell back to the floor, and Violet tucked the mags into the slim pockets of her jacket. They were going in the river the first chance she got.

Violet wiped the spray bottle down, and threw it into a corner, the trash there hopefully enough to disguise it for some time. Feeling the intimidating weight of Jaime Moriarty's blade hovering menacingly at her lower back, Violet casually walked away from the scene of Woodley's defeat, hoping she'd done enough to keep the last Moriarty scion a long dead ghost.

_St Bart's, here I come. _

_I'm coming, Anthea. Still be alive, please baby._

* * *

><p>Sherlock grinned at his brother, then dismissed him completely, going straight to his doctor. He paid no mind to the enraged expression on his brother's face, irked past his ability to handle the assumption on Mycroft's part that Sherlock would have used the formula to manufacture the drugs.<p>

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's shoulders, burying his face in the short blonde tresses behind his lover's ear, breathing in his earthy scent. John wrapped his arms around his waist, the strength in them solid and sure. His doctor snuggled under his chin, a spot that both of them loved. Sherlock let every one of his senses disengage, but for the ones absorbed in holding John. Outside stimuli fell away, leaving him focused on the man in his arms.

_I almost lost you John. I'll never let you go._

Hands rubbed his back under his coat, whispering up and down his spine, sending shivers along his nerves, tingling places awake. His adrenaline and anger combined, mixing into arousal and awareness of the shorter man. John nibbled lightly on his neck, gently teasing him, unseen by anyone watching at this angle. The small hint of attraction and affection John gave him extinguished the flames of anger, and bitter disappointment he realized he was feeling.

_Mycroft blames me for Anthea, and Violet. He blames me for it all. And then assumes I'm nothing but my addictions. I am more than my past. I trust John, I believe in John Watson. He believes in me. He makes me more, makes me better in every way. Without John, I am what Mycroft believes me to be._

_I'm saying yes. And I'll spend my life making John happy. He is my challenge, the case that constantly needs solving. I never back down from a challenge._

Sherlock pulled back from John, one arm maintaining his secure grip around the smaller man. John smiled at him, wondering, and a soft, affectionate look in his evening-sky-blue eyes. Sherlock worked his hand into his tight silk shirt, and pulled free the metal chain holding John's tags and the ring he gave him on Christmas. John's eyes widened, and he got a hopeful, nervous look on his handsome face.

Sherlock nimbly removed the ring with one hand, and let the tags fall to his chest, gleaming against the darkness of his shirt. He held the ring, and offered it silently to John.

Their eyes met, and Sherlock nodded, once. John's face lit up, and he took the ring without a word. John's breathing sped up, and Sherlock felt the fine tremors run through his solid frame as his doctor lifted the ring. Sherlock carefully gave him his left hand, and the older man exhaled a short breath in relief and happiness as the ring slid over Sherlock's finger. It settled below his knuckle as if he had been born wearing it, the metal band sparkling brightly.

"Yes, John." Sherlock whispered, afraid to break the spell that held them together. John smiled at him, and it was if the world held its breath as they kissed, fingers curling together, the ring warming against their skin.

Neither registered the harsh exhale from Mycroft, the sound heavy with exasperation, and maybe a grudging amount of envy.

"Oh, that's ….. Oh wow….kinda hot," Carruthers gasped, and Sherlock felt John smile as they took their kiss deeper.

* * *

><p>Violet ran along the halls of St Bart's, the text from Molly telling her where Anthea's room was. She saw the pathologist outside a doorway halfway down a hall, her stark white lab coat accentuating the fading bruises on her soft cheek. The marks from Tom's assault were almost gone, nothing but a faint bluish blush high on her left cheekbone.<p>

"Hey Molls, you okay?" Violet asked breathlessly as she slowed her headlong pace to stop beside the pathologist. Molly gave her a tremulous smile, but her eyes were cast in shadows, and she bit her lip as they both turned to the room. Violet forgot her question, and barely remembered to breathe.

Violet felt her whole body lurch in sickening grief at the broken vision before her. Anthea lay in the bed, the white sheets washing out her once healthy skin tone, her dark hair closer to black as it weaved through the snow-white bandages wrapped around her head. Bruises ran rampant down a side of Anthea's face, neck, and the top of her shoulders all on the same side.

"She's suffered severe head trauma, Violet. Her brain is swelling, and she's in a coma. She had emergency surgery right after she came in, and the surgeons opened up a part of her skull so her brain could expand safely." Molly whispered, and Violet realized the shy woman was holding her hand, patting it gently as she regretfully destroyed Violet's peace of mind and broke her heart.

"She….. She isn't expected to make it." Molly continued, and she swallowed loudly, having trouble speaking. Violet gripped her hand tightly, unable to remove her gaze from her battered girl. "Mycroft is in charge of her care, he wants them to keep trying to save her."

"That's….. That's good. She's a fighter," Violet gasped out, and she felt her shoulders shaking as sobs fought their way free. Molly grabbed her close, hugging her tightly as Violet cried. She couldn't tear her eyes away from Anthea, and she sobbed out her anger, fear and guilt into the cold sterile hall of the hospital.

_I should have gutted him. I should have killed Woodley when Jaime offered me the knife._

Violet sobbed, dropping her head to Molly's shoulder, and both women cried together. One thread of thought ran through Violet's head as it was buffeted about by her chaotic emotions, teasing her anger and desire for retribution.

_Woodley is here in St Bart's._

_Somewhere._

_I can find him._

_I have Jaime's knife._

* * *

><p>Mary hovered outside the bedroom door, the surgeons Clay had summoned just finishing their post-op cleanup. Mary heard the reassuring beep of the heart monitor, telling her with every soft sound that Jaime lived.<p>

Clay stood at her back, one of his big hands resting on her shoulder, occasionally squeezing as she controlled her breathing, refusing to cry. Jaime needed her to be strong, and they were too close to London and the older Holmes brother to let down their guard.

Clay had gotten them all out safely, the helicopter a large monstrosity that raced along the river, picking them up at the shore side in an empty gravel lot behind a closed factory. Mary barely remembered the race to get out of London, recalling bits and pieces of the escape. What stood out the most was the way the strangers had treated Jaime, and Clay. Something had changed.

There was word she'd heard a few times as the faceless men descended on them, a word that held a thread of awe, even fear.

"Tell me about Reaper, Clay," Mary asked softly, pulling shut the door so the men in the room couldn't hear them. The hall was empty but for them, the nameless hotel they were in deserted on this floor.

Clay stiffened, and he slowly turned to her. His face was closed off, cautious. His bronze skin had regained some color the longer Jaime survived, and he was still covered in his lady's blood. She locked eyes with him, and the young man nodded once. He took a deep breath, and leaned on the wall.

"'Reaper' is the activation code for the syndicate. I activated the inner web and the remaining outer pieces," Clay whispered, eyeing the hall in both directions.

"Why?" Mary whispered back, subduing her concerns at what that may mean.

"The code is a failsafe, to be activated in the event of Jim Moriarty's death. It reactivates the whole thing, the syndicate, and passes complete control to Jaime. It's a partial formality, as she held control anyway after his suicide. She did it all without Reaper needing to be activated, as she was still in hiding. All Reaper does is formally place Jaime in control, and immediately gives her first lieutenant disciple status."

"First lieutenant? That's you, I'm assuming?" Mary queried, watching his face carefully. Clay nodded, and tried to smile. He failed.

"It's the only way I could get the immediate resources to save her life. It gave me the authority to do all of this," Clay told her, nervous and looking sick. "I hope she understands."

"Why? What's wrong?"

"Activating Reaper like I did told every remaining member of the syndicate that she's alive," Clay said, and Mary felt the floor shift under her feet. "A lot of very bad people now know that Jaime Moriarty is alive, and they'll be looking to resume the activities that ended when Jim blew out his brains on the top of St Bart's."

"Oh shit."

* * *

><p>The hall outside Woodley's room at St Bart's was crawling with cops and MI6, and Violet grumbled under her breath as she watched from the far end of the ICU. There was no way she was going to be able to get through the mess of people unseen. All of her uncle's men, and most of Scotland Yard, knew who she was, and she would be noticed.<p>

Mycroft was back upstairs with Anthea, Greg standing vigil with her uncle in between confabs with his men and Donovan. Wrapping up the official version of the Woodley incident was something Violet had no interest in, but she was monitoring everything with her programs. Any hint of MI6 or NSY figuring out who had helped them in the warehouse that morning would immediately send an alert to Violet on her cell, and she would decide what to do after that to contain the damage. She hated going behind Mycroft's back, but she knew his temper, and he would not hesitate to punish Sherlock and herself for their part in Moriarty's continued freedom.

_Fucking monster is less than thirty feet from me, and he's getting put back together. Fucker is a serial rapist, drug lord, and all around fucking deviant, and he gets medical care and pain meds. He needs to die._

_I really should've killed him when I had the chance._

_Of course, Fate could do us all a solid and let him kick it any minute._

_Wonder if Jaime would have killed him if she hadn't gotten shot?_

_Never mind, think I know the answer to that._

The weight of Jaime's blade was both comforting and frightening, and Violet felt like people could tell she had it just by looking at her, even though the knife was hidden under her jacket. She didn't carry weapons, usually just her mace and a stun gun or two. Those things couldn't do much damage, and she only ever resorted to violence if she couldn't think her way out of a situation. So carrying the wicked knife under her jacket, and recognizing on a visceral level the amount of lives it had taken over the years was unnerving and making her skin crawl.

_Damn thing is big enough to be called a fucking sword, I swear. Okay, maybe not really, but close enough. Fucking heavy though._

Violet sighed in frustration, and gave up trying to work her way through the teeming uniforms and suits to finish off Woodley. She saw a sign for the ICU's restrooms, and curiosity drove her to enter the ladies' room. She flipped the lock on the door, and walked to the sink. She pulled out the long blade, and stared at it. She'd seen it several times over the last few weeks, in surveillance videos and pictures of Jaime during her vengeance streak a couple months back, but all of those views had been blurry or too quick to really see it. And the last twelve hours hadn't given her enough time to study the blade in any detail.

She took the time now, wondering what would prompt a sociopath like Jaime to hold onto a weapon for such a long time. She found her heart stilling, fingers tightening unconsciously as her brain slowly registered the masterpiece she held.

It was around a foot long, the length similar to the large hunting knives popular in the States, but slimmer, and the edges curved and flowed. It reminded her of a single ripple of water on a smooth lake, the moon shining high overhead. Usually such a romantic thought would make her snort with derision and a smidge of appreciation, yet this time the thought of this blade being crafted from ice-cold water and moonlight seemed apt. It was double-edged, both sides as long as the other, and the hilt was crafted to fit a woman's hand, wrapped in fine dark leather and what looked like thin strands of silver thread woven through the leather.

What arrested her attention the strongest was the lettering, hidden in the wavy lines of the silver plating that graced the steel near the hilt. At first she wasn't aware what the language was, or if it wasn't just a maker's mark for the blade. The words were tiny, and she squinted, lifting the blade closer to her face, shivering as she smelled the tooled leather and the sharp bite of high quality metals.

_**Tá mé i gcónaí leat.**_

_What the hell does that mean? That's not even English. Sometimes it pays to be a genius._

Violet pulled out her mobile, glad that Mycroft's people had found it at the club and returned it to her earlier. She found her translation app, and instead of typing in the words (which the accent marks would have made highly difficult) she took a close up picture of the wording. The translator read the words from the picture, and Violet waited, eyeing the knife as if it were going to bite her at any minute.

Her mobile beeped, and Violet read the translation it gave her. It was in Irish, or Gaelic, depending on who you asked. The words meant the same, and Violet felt her breath catch as they sank into her consciousness.

**I am always with you.**

_Weird ass thing to have on a knife. "I am always with you"? Really? Is that supposed to be the knife saying that, or maybe the person who gave it to her…? Oh Shit! Someone did give this to her! It's why she always has it! She carries more blades, but Jaime always has this one blade on her! _

_There's only been one person she would treasure a gift from… until Mary. _

_ Her brother gave this knife to her. Holy fuck. _

"Holy fuck me," Violet murmured, and she looked up from the blade, staring at her reflection in the bathroom's mirror. "Jim Moriarty gave this knife to Jaime."

Violet put her mobile away, and slowly lifted the blade. It had an aura of violence about it, a hovering menace that made her skin crawl. She usually wouldn't give in to such follies, but the knife was freaking her the fuck out, and she wanted nothing more than to stuff it in the trash and run to her uncle screaming about monsters.

She stared at her reflection, a part of her surprised she couldn't see the corruption of evil messing up her features, the creeping of shadows over her heart. She almost gave in to vengeance, the desire to kill someone. She understood killing in self-defense, and killing evil men and women to stop them from committing atrocities, but her bloodthirsty willingness to kill someone rendered helpless made her feel ill, as if the knife had given her a disease, and she let her anger and pain feed it. Violet knew she was being foolish, that anyone in her position would have entertained the thought, but as she stared at the blade, her body wanted to vomit up the rage and cleanse her soul.

Instead, Violet breathed through the riot brewing in her gut, and let her body settle. Her heart, overcome by grief and frustration at being helpless to aid Anthea, was an aching void of misery. Violet shrugged off the outward signs of grief, a mask of cold apathy coming over her Holmes features. She put the knife away under her jacket, and slipped from the restroom.

On her way back upstairs, Violet mused over the words on the blade. Jim Moriarty obviously loved his sister a great deal, and yet he killed himself. He had someone in his life who was willing to burn the world to ash and dust to avenge his loss, yet he took his own life to make sure Sherlock died? She understood the drive to win, she really did, but to take himself out of the game so totally was a bit odd.

Why would a madman, who spent his whole life rising above his helpless beginnings, abandon his sister, and make such a permanent move as suicide, especially when facing a man as adaptable as Sherlock Holmes? From all accounts, Jim Moriarty never gave up. And regardless of Sherlock's witness to the act itself, Violet felt a shiver of unease run through her body. Suicide was a capitulation, of every future choice and action, rendering all options yet to be taken pointless.

Jim Moriarty was always a step or a thousand ahead of everyone. So why kill himself?

Violet shook her head, dismissing the thoughts that threatened to circle in her mind _ad_ _nauseum_. She wondered where John was, and if he was in the mood for handing out hugs. The good doctor was a deft hand at settling her nerves, and she smiled at the thought of Sherlock benefiting from John's presence in a similar fashion. Sans sex, of course. John was cute, he just did nothing for her in that regard.

Thinking of John brought Mary to mind, and Violet realized she should probably get rid of the knife before Mycroft saw it. He would recognize it immediately, and the game would blow up in a massive shitstorm to end all shitstorms.

Violet hopped in the elevator, glad it was empty. She pulled out her mobile, and sent a text to Mary.

**J left a certain something behind. It's not something I can carry around for long. You still in London? And please tell me everyone is still here, and haven't 'moved on'. –VH**

A moment went past, as she stared at the floor numbers above the door, the elevator pinging past one by one. A short vibration, and she had her response.

**Everyone is still here, resting comfortably. I'll collect the item in person. Where are you? –MM**

**St Bart's. Be careful, the whole of Britain's police force is here too. Want to meet somewhere else? –VH**

**No. I'm closer to Bart's than anywhere else in town. –MM**

**Okay. Just you though, leave Sexy Soldier behind. –VH**

**I couldn't pry him from her side if I used a nuke. Be there soon. –MM**

Violet sighed in relief, glad that Clean Slate would keep Mary safe as she came back into London. The doors pinged as they opened on Anthea's new floor. The operative had been moved to a private suite a few floors up, to the neurological department of the hospital. Violet felt her heart spasm in her chest, and she bit her lip as she forced herself to step from the elevator.

_Thea. I'm back baby. I'm sorry I almost gave in._

* * *

><p>Sherlock waited outside the examination room, hearing the low voices of his doctor and the emergency room nurse talking together. John had wilted with exhaustion soon after Mycroft and Lestrade kicked them from the warehouse, and Sherlock had given into the tiny voice of wisdom that told him to take John back to Bart's.<p>

"I'll be fine, I just need to sleep." Sherlock heard John's voice come clearly through the curtain seconds before it was pulled back, revealing his lover. John smiled at him, and Sherlock reached out a hand, and John clasped it firmly in his own.

Sherlock led the way from the A&E, and with John at his side, he was hell-bent on getting them both home. Naked, then into bed, and he wasn't letting John go for days.

* * *

><p>Violet squeezed Anthea's hand gently. The other woman was pale beneath the bruising on her face, and her pulse was weak. Her hands were cold, and Violet tucked them both under the blanket, pulling it higher around her torso. Hospitals were always cold, and Violet wanted Thea as comfortable as possible.<p>

Violet saw the shadow of her uncle move slightly as he sat in his corner, and she turned to him. His face was paler than usual, and his eyes were tired. Mycroft's fury that had carried him through the last two days was fading, and he looked as exhausted as she felt.

She felt her mobile vibrate, and hid her reaction to it. She walked over to Mycroft, and without a word, kissed the top of his head. He sighed, but let her, and she hugged his shoulders.

"You going home, Violet?" Mycroft asked her, voice low.

"Yeah. I need a shower, some fresh clothing. I'll see you when I get back, okay?" She didn't bother asking him if he would be here when she got back. He could run the nation from a closet in Siberia, so he didn't need to be anywhere but here, his aides supplying him with everything he needed.

"I'll be here. Be careful, please."

"I will," and she kissed him one more time. She walked away, and left Anthea's suite, pulling out her mobile.

**In the morgue. –MM**

**Omw. –VH**

Getting to the morgue was easy. Violet knew the way, having walked it many times with John and Sherlock in the last two months. She smiled at the operatives and cops loitering in the halls, and eventually the crowds thinned out as she made her way to the rear of Bart's, the morgue ahead.

The lights were on, and Violet spied Molly inside, talking animatedly with the American spy. Violet grinned, and pushed through the doors.

"Violet! Look who came back!" Molly called out, excited. Violet smiled at the pathologist, glad that she harbored no ill will towards Mary for her involvement in Jaime's vengeance plot weeks before.

"Hey Mary, glad to see you're okay," she said tongue in cheek, not letting on to Molly that Violet and Mary had been hanging out for the last couple of months on a weekly basis.

"I came to ask a favor…. Molly, can Violet and I have minute alone please? I'll come see you before I leave."

"Oh! Of course! I'll just go tag some more bodies for autopsy tomorrow, I'll be in the admittance bay." Molly pointed towards the double doors leading to the ambulance bay in the back, where corpses were brought in from outside the hospital. "Take your time."

Violet smiled at the flighty pathologist, glad for her sweet nature and eagerness not to pry. She was curious, but Molly appreciated secrets, and the desire to keep them. Most of Sherlock's inner circle had plenty of secrets, so that was nothing new.

Mary kept the innocent smile on her face until the doors swung shut behind Molly. Mary exhaled, and Violet saw the strain on her fair face from the last several hours. Mary leaned a hip on a steel exam table, and quirked a single brow in Violet's direction.

"Here….I think Jaime might want this back. I almost tossed it, and Greg nearly discovered it back at the warehouse," Violet pulled free the knife, and put it gently on the table beside Mary's hand. She let it go, and felt a weight drop from her shoulders as the last hint on temptation to kill Woodley left with the knife.

"Oh," Mary sighed as her fingers reverently lifted the blade, and her fingers traced the flowing edges, the leather hilt. "She loves this knife. Sentimental of her, I know. Yet it was a gift, so she treasures this beyond common sense sometimes."

"From her brother, right? I translated the Irish on the blade, there near the hilt." Violet told her, and pointed to the tiny words engraved in the metal.

"Yes, it was from Moriarty. What does it say? My Irish is very rusty."

"'I am always with you.' A weird thing to put on a knife, but I guess he loved her, so who knows? Must have meant something to the two of them."

Mary was quiet for a minute, finger running over the tiny letters. "They meant a lot to each other. Jaime has depths of love in her, to rival the insanity. Maybe this blade means he felt the same for her."

"He didn't love her enough not to kill himself. Selfish bastard." Violet realized she was mad, angry at a lunatic whom she'd never met, for killing himself and leaving his equally crazy sister alone in the world.

"My sentiments exactly, Violet. I've tried to tell her that, and Jaime may be on her way to believing me. She's having trouble letting him go. It doesn't help that she never got to say goodbye to him, either."

"What do you mean? She didn't know he was going to kill himself?"

"Not that exactly. She didn't know what he intended to do. I meant she never got a chance to bury him, his body was taken by MI6 before she could get to him." Mary secured the blade under her black jacket, zipping it up. Her blue eyes were pensive, her thoughts presumably focused on the young woman recovering from this morning's crazy events.

"That sucks," Violet grimaced, and thought about how much that would hurt, being unable to bury a loved one. When her mother died, Violet had manipulated the system to arrange for her mother's cremation, and she had stolen her mother's ashes. She still had them, secured in a storage facility back in the States. A sudden idea gripped her, and she sucked in a deep breath.

"Mary….. I have an idea. Give me a minute." Violet yanked out her mobile, got to work, glad the Wi-Fi was so strong down here. She owed Jaime Moriarty her life, and this was an easy solution to help balance the debt between them.

"What are you doing?" Mary asked, moving to her side, peering over her shoulder.

"I have the entire Jim Moriarty debacle on my servers. I can tell you what MI6 did with his body. Give Jaime some closure."

"Violet, you do this, I'll kiss you, so be ready."

"Sweet! You're my type too." Violet winked at Mary, and the blonde woman smiled at her.

It didn't take long. She had access to the entire thing, from first contact between Sherlock and Moriarty, to the minute Sherlock came home to British soil after tearing apart Moriarty's syndicate. She scrolled through the reams of data, looking for the day on St Bart's when Moriarty shot himself and Sherlock jumped.

"Here it is….. Eeewww they have photos from the rooftop. Let's see…." She ran her finger down the screen, clicking through the photos. "MI6 found a blood pool, bone fragments. Tissue sample… gross… and they took his body to…what the fuck?"

"What Violet? What did MI6 do to him?" Mary asked, squinting at the screen.

Violet double-checked, then looked at Mary. Her heart was racing, and she kept flashing back to the words on the knife. "You SURE that Jaime didn't get to her brother's body first? And she just forgot, seeing as how she's crazy and all?"

"Yes, Violet. I'm certain. Clay and Jaime both assured me they never recovered Moriarty's body, that it was gone before they could get to him. MI6 took Jim." Mary sounded certain, but she must have seen the dread, the apprehension on Violet's face. "Why?"

"MI6 found his blood, hair, and microscopic bone fragments in the blood pool where Sherlock said his body fell to the rooftop. They never recovered his body, as MI6 was too occupied in shooting the sniper aiming at John, and orchestrating Sherlock's jump. They sent people for him afterwards, but there was no body. Mycroft theorized that Moriarty's people were ordered to collect his body, and that they disposed of him per his orders, as he must have been intending to die the whole time."

Mary and Violet stared at each other, the silence in the morgue heavy and ominous. Violet shivered, thinking again of the words a madman had inscribed into silver and steel for his beloved baby sister. 'I am always with you.'

"MI6 doesn't have his body?" Mary asked her, as if needing confirmation.

"Yeah. They never did." Violet whispered, and she swallowed, clutching her mobile in her fist.

"Oh shit." Mary's British accent was gone and she sounded like a good southern girl from the States.

"Oh shit is right."

"Jaime doesn't have his body, and she looked for him for months. She would know if her own people had him."

"Sooo…. You think we should be freaking out now?" Violet gasped, and it took everything she had not to start screaming.

"I'll let you know. I…. I have to talk to Jaime. There's no way that both the syndicate and MI6 lost Jim Moriarty's body. Someone knows what happened to him. Violet, I'll call you. It might be a few days, Violet. Please… for your own sake, don't say anything to Mycroft."

"I don't fancy seeing WWIII starting in the middle of St Bart's. Go, ask Jaime about it. I'll poke around, see what I can learn. Maybe we missed something, and he's buried in pauper's field somewhere," Violet assured Mary, and the American assassin nodded.

"Thank you, Violet. I hope Anthea pulls through, and I'm glad you're okay. Let's hope you're right. Let me say goodbye to Molly." Mary backed away, her face settling into a pleasant, happy mask, only her eyes betraying the tumult that Violet was sharing.

_I never pray, but today I am. Let his body be burned to ash, or buried six feet under beneath a hawthorn tree somewhere…. This has to be a mistake._

Mary nodded once, and took off through the bay doors, calling goodbye to Molly as she walked away hurriedly.

Violet gulped, then put away her mobile.

"I need Sherlock."

* * *

><p>John sighed, and shifted under the man resting on top of him. Sherlock was limp, exhausted, and his weight was pressing John deeper into the mattress. He didn't want to move, but he need to breathe, and he was having trouble. He rubbed the naked, sweaty shoulders above him, and sighed again, louder. He grinned when Sherlock nibbled on his shoulder, then lathed at the spot with his tongue, soothing the tiny bite.<p>

Sherlock grumbled in protest as he shifted again, and long arms roped under him, and Sherlock rolled. He found himself resting on Sherlock's chest, his head tucked under his detective's chin. Sherlock's right arm held him tightly, and John gripped his lover's left hand, twining their fingers together. He played with the engagement band that rested on Sherlock's ring finger, the low lights reflecting off the polished metal.

"Go to sleep, John. I'm here," Sherlock's deep voice rumbled under his ear, and John snuggled further into Sherlock's embrace, feeling secure, and loved. "No one is coming for us. It's over, and we're together."

"Yes we are." John tipped his head back, and met Sherlock's heavenly eyes. Sherlock leaned down, and kissed him softly. "I love you, Sherlock. Thank you for saying yes."

"That was always my answer, John. I just had to see why you wanted me to wait. It took me a bit, but I found my way through to the answer."

"And what was the answer?"

"That you are worth sacrificing everything for. You make me who I am, and I can do no less than my absolute best for you. You inspire me to greatness, and part of that will be showing you exactly how much, for the rest of our lives."

"Sherlock….. How do you do that? Every bloody time… I'm not going to cry. C'mere you git." John pulled Sherlock back down for another kiss, and the fire between them roared back to life. Sherlock rolled back on top of John, and settled between his spread thighs, both men groaning at the contact, their bodies stirring despite having spent their passion minutes earlier.

* * *

><p><strong>December 31<strong>**st****, 12:30 AM**

John woke to the gentle tapping on the bedroom door. He cracked open one eye, and peered towards the door. The moon was out, and night had fallen. It came again, _tap tap tap_.

Sherlock was sleeping beside him, hair a tangled mess, and his face was buried between John's shoulder and the bed.

_Tap tap tap._

_Go away, I'm sleeping. Man needs to recover after 'we saved the day' sex._

"John? Sherlock? It's Violet. I need to speak to Sherlock."

_Crap. Okay._

"One sec Violet, he's sleeping. We'll be out in a minute or so," he called out softly, and he saw the light from the hall move under the door as Violet shifted.

"Thanks John. I'll be in the den." She must have left, as the light pooling under the door was uninterrupted.

He exhaled, and nudged Sherlock with his arm, gently.

"You awake, mate?"

Sherlock growled, and burrowed deeper under the blankets. John grinned, and ran a hand down his lover's back, from his curls down the lean muscles of his back, under the covers, before finding his finely-toned ass. He lightly pinched a cheek, and Sherlock jumped. One brilliant eye cracked open, and glared at him.

"Violet wants to talk to you, love. Time to get up. I'll make you some tea."

"Sleeping."

"Nope, you're awake. Up you get," John smiled at the sleepy detective, as petulant as a child awakened too early from a nap. John got out of bed, evading the grasping arm determined to keep him under the covers. He snapped on the light, and Sherlock moaned loudly. "Up, now."

"Evil doctor. Evil niece. Will destroy later," came the mumbled threat from under the covers, and John laughed. He reached out, and pulled them away, the cool air rushing in over Sherlock's bare skin. He admired the view even as Sherlock tumbled from bed, glaring at him and mumbling threats the entire time.

"I'll go put on some tea, you get dressed." John grabbed his robe from the back of the door, and pulled on a pair of pajama trousers that were pooled beside the bed. The hall was deserted when he opened the door, and he made for the kitchen, catching sight of Violet as she paced in the front room. She must have changed while they were sleeping, wearing her customary lack of clothing when she was at home, just a pair of short shorts and a tank top tee that did nothing to hide her slim body. John shook his head, and went for the stove and the tea kettle. The clicking of the gas as the burner lit got her attention, and she gave him a tense smile, chewing on a fingernail. She kept pacing, and John wondered what could be bothering her so much.

"Violet? It's not Anthea, is it? She's still with us?" John called to the young woman wearing a hole in the carpet as she paced back and forth. She looked so much like Sherlock in that moment that John had to smile, even with his fears over Anthea's health.

"Thea is still alive. Still in a coma," she told him, peering down the hall, obviously impatient for Sherlock to get out of the bedroom.

It was as if thinking about him made him appear, the detective flouncing indignantly down the hall past the kitchen, dropping dramatically in his armchair by the fire burning merrily in the hearth. His royal blue robe and pajamas gave him a dignified air despite his annoyed expression and mannerisms. John grinned, walking out of the kitchen, and sat in his own armchair. Both men looked to Violet expectantly, and she stared back at them, at a loss for words.

"Violet? Anytime now, please," Sherlock waved a hand at his niece, and Violet grabbed a footstool, dragging in to the space between the two chairs, within touching distance of them both. She met John's eyes, her amethyst eyes deeply disturbed, before pulling them away, and locking gazes with her uncle.

"This is going to sound totally crazy."

"Never stopped a Holmes before, so go on." Violet tried to smile at Sherlock's quip, before her face fell into a strange combination of dread and discovery.

"Jaime carries this knife. You've both seen it." John and Sherlock nodded. "She left it behind at the warehouse. I picked it up, and hid it so no one would see it." She paused, and both of them nodded again. "There was an inscription on the hilt, in Irish. I translated it, and it says, 'I am always with you.' Kinda creepy, especially as Mary told me the knife was a present to Jaime from her brother, Jim."

Sherlock froze, his attention narrowing down to Violet, his focus absolute. John watched both of them, and Sherlock stopped blinking.

"Anyways, I couldn't carry it around with me all day, and I got ahold of Mary. She came to get it from me at Bart's. She told me that it was gift from Moriarty to his sister. We got to talking about the… about the two of them. Jim and Jaime I mean."

Sherlock leaned forward, his whole body angled to Violet. She gulped, and dragged in a deep breath of air. The atmosphere in the flat was changing, and John felt the tension like a charge of electricity, flowing over his skin.

"Mary and I were talking about how Jaime needed to move on, and she couldn't, not really, because she never got to bury her brother."

John blinked. Something wasn't right in that sentence. Sherlock was transfixed on Violet, his entire body primed for something to happen. John felt the tension in his lover's body even from a foot away, and John went from watching them both to staring in shock at Sherlock. There was nothing human left in the man in front of him, all emotion and thought barricaded behind the cold exterior that most of the world saw.

"Mary…..and I…. I went looking for Moriarty's body in the files. MI6 never had him. They found the remains on the rooftops, the blood, some tissue, small bone fragments from when he shot himself. But… they never recovered his body."

John felt it then, a shift in the world under his feet. Sherlock relaxed, and leaned back. He wasn't losing his focus; no. It was intensified, to a level no regular man could sustain. John hadn't seen this expression on his lover's face in over two years. A sickening sensation raced over his body, and John put a hand over his mouth.

"Jaime and Clay both told Mary that Jaime and the syndicate never recovered Jim's body. Jaime spent months hunting for her brother's body, so she could bury him." Violet looked as ill as John felt, and she was losing her composure. Her hands were shaking, and she gripped her knees, fingers white knuckled.

"Sherlock… if Mycroft and MI6 never had his body… if his own sister and his own people never had his body….. Where's Jim Moriarty?" Violet's question hovered in the calm air of the flat, disturbing the peace and wreaking havoc on John's nerves.

* * *

><p><em>Where's Jim Moriarty? <em>

_Where are you James? Are you dead, or haunting me now as my life becomes something worth fighting for?_

Sherlock pulled his gaze away from Violet, and leaned back fully in his chair, facing over John's shoulder into the kitchen. Sleep was finally gone from his mind, and a restless energy was writhing in his gut, whispers from deep inside his mind palace calling out to him.

"Give me some time." Sherlock was barely aware of the words, sparsely registering that they came from his mouth. This was something he needed to think about. With his entire ability, nothing distracting him.

"Come on Violet, I'll make something for us to eat. His face says he's gonna be at it for a while." John stood, and offered his hand to Violet, guiding her into the kitchen where the kettle was whistling.

"Okay. We have anything that won't count as cannibalism?"

"Think Mrs. Hudson got rid of the body parts. You know, I've never asked her what she does with them."

"I'm never eating another thing she makes until we find out."

Sherlock let the voices fade out, and he closed his eyes, dropping away to his mind palace. He returned to that day on the roof, the day Moriarty forced his hand, and made Sherlock rip apart his life.

He saw again the gun firing, felt the jerk of Moriarty's hand as he gripped it with his own; he smelled the tang of hot metal that accompanied freshly spilled blood. The vacant, yet still smug expression on the dead man's face as he stared up at the sky, eyes unseeing. He recalled his shock, his utter surprise that Jim would go so far, that such an option was even considered. Adapting to it had been the work of seconds, and there was a plan that was modifiable to work with Moriarty's death.

Lazarus worked as planned, and Sherlock ended his life in London. He pushed aside the grief he experienced that first week, the loss of John's presence in his life crippling. He went home that week, and stayed in his room, refusing Mycroft's orders to get up. It wasn't until Mycroft told him that John would always consider him dead and gone if he never got to work that motivated Sherlock onto the flight to Europe.

He expelled that memory, the smell of John's scent lingering on his skin and the taste of his kiss in his mouth enough to calm his nerves. John was here with him, puttering about in the kitchen, making something with peas and chicken despite the late hour.

Violet was talking easily, her nerves calmed by John's company. John was a calming influence, and having him there was reassuring, in such a way that left even Sherlock wondering why. There was a steel core to the army doctor, an inviolate quality that gave Sherlock a place to center himself.

Sherlock felt the warmth of the fire on his skin, saw through his shut eyelids the flickering orange glow. He settled deeper into his chair, body relaxing fully, and he surrendered to the pull of his mind palace completely.

He slipped away, and wondered why this trip to his mind palace felt different. Something was wrong.

So very wrong.

* * *

><p><strong>2:00 AM<strong>

**St Bart's**

Mycroft jerked awake, his empty paper coffee cup falling from his grip. He shook his head, and dispelled the revenants of the dream from his mind. A chaotic laugh still chased his thoughts, and he felt disturbed on a level he hadn't in years.

It had been a nightmare, a horrific retelling of the night he stabbed Sherrin. He could still hear the echoing laughter of his psychotic brother as Sherrin tumbled from the cliff, disappearing into the inky black waves over a hundred feet below. He could almost taste the salt on from the sea, he could felt the damp sea air on his skin. Something had prompted him to dream of his brother, and the specter of Death hovered about him.

Taunting him.

He did his best to eradicate the remaining unease, the trilling laugh seeming to hang in the chilly air of Anthea's hospital room. The soft beep of the heart monitor greeted him, and she was still slumbering, an unwilling Sleepy Beauty. He stood, and moved gingerly to her bedside, his feet unsure in his exhaustion.

"Mycroft?" he jerked at the sound of his name, and saw Gregory standing in the doorway. "Any change?"

"No. She still sleeps."

"That's good, right? It's really only been a little over twenty four hours, poor thing took a serious knock to her head, I'd still be sleeping too." Gregory reassured him, and moved from his place at the door, coming to his side. Gregory took his hand, and leaned slightly on him, his warmth filling Mycroft, chasing away the last of the dream.

Mycroft said nothing, merely reached out a hand, his fingers touching her soft cheek. She was cool, and he felt a shiver run over him. He reached for another blanket, and covered her awkwardly, Gregory helping him. He didn't have much experience in tucking someone in other than Gregory, and it felt odd to do the same for Anthea.

"Time to go home, mate. She wouldn't want you passing out from exhaustion. She'd tell you the same." Gregory nudged him with his elbow, and Mycroft nodded. He would go home, recharge, and come back in the morning. "The doctors know to call you if anything changes. Come on, let's go home."

Mycroft touched her cheek one last time, before letting Gregory lead him from her room. He held onto the soft beep of her heart monitor for as long as he could, then let the strong hand in his supply him the strength to keep walking.

"I love you, Gregory. I think I should tell you that, as often as I can."

"Good idea. I love you too, ya know. With everything in me."

* * *

><p>Jaime sat up, screaming as she pulled the stitches in her side. Hands came down over her, restraining her to the bed. Molten licks of pain radiated out from her side, and her limbs refused to cooperate. Her blows fell ineffectively on broad shoulders, and it took the light coming on in the room for her to calm at last.<p>

"Jaime! Relax, you're okay." It was Mary, standing beside the light switch, as Clay restrained her from his spot in the chair beside her bed.

"What?...What happened?" Jaime gasped, hands covering her side, and she slowed her ragged breathing, her mind automatically cataloging every ache and pain. She was a mas of bruises, sprained muscles and aching flesh.

"Everyone made it out okay, sweetheart. You saved Violet, and no one more than Sherlock and his people know you were there." Mary came over to her, and Clay moved back, letting Mary take his spot. Jaime reached for her, and Mary took her hand, soothing her.

"Where….." she left her question unfinished, recognizing where she was.

Home. She was home.

"We got you out of England after the surgeons stabilized you. You've been out of it for nearly a day. We're at the castle, my lady." Clay spoke up from behind Mary, his handsome features lit up by his relieved grin.

"So I see." Jaime eased herself back, and looked around. It was the same room it always had been, and she saw the familiar starry sky through the windows. She was home.

"I got something for you." Mary reached down to the floor, and came up with her knife, placing it in her hand. Jaime's fingers clenched on it instinctively, and she felt the last dredges of alarm fade away.

"I….. Where was it?"

"Violet got it out of the warehouse before anyone saw it. I got it from her just before we left London."

"Good. I'm glad. I couldn't….. He gave it to me." She refused to contemplate a future without this knife in her hand. It was the last enduring gift of her brother, and as she shed his influence as her master, she would cling to the man who was her brother as best she could.

"I know, sweetheart. Here, let's put it on the nightstand. I have something to ask you." Mary took the blade away, and Jaime saw that she put it just out of reach. Clay was shifting nervously on his feet, staring at her as if he was afraid now, afraid of her and what she might do.

"This doesn't bode well, Mary. Ask me then, whatever it may be."

Mary sighed, and gripped her hand in both of hers. Her lovely face grew serious, and her deep blue eyes reminded Jaime of the sea that roared along the cliffs beyond the castle.

"I asked Violet to find Jim's body in the MI6 records. Violet says MI6 never had him. Mycroft, in one of his records, stated that he thought Moriarty's people got to his body before they could collect it themselves."

Jaime sucked in a deep breath, the pain in her side overwhelming, yet even the agony couldn't breakthrough her shock.

"Is it possible that someone other than you got to his body first? Another disciple?" Mary asked her, squeezing her hand.

Jaime went limp, staring up at the stone ceiling of her room.

_No._

The old cracks in the mortar glowered down at her, mocking in ancient whispers, jeering at her stupidity, her gullibility.

_No. No. Nooooo….._

_NONONONONONONONO._

_He wouldn't… Yes. Yes he would. _

_NO!_

A single, powerful phrase attacked her, lancing her perception of the world, her dearly held beliefs. It came from the corners of her mind, flooding her thoughts with vivid, acrid despair. Drowning her.

"_I am always with you."_

Her faith shattered, torn asunder by the greatest betrayal she had ever experienced, surpassing all previous hurts and injuries. She was a raw wound, every breath salt rubbed harshly across her psyche.

"Jaime? Sweetheart?"

She ignored Mary. She ignored everything, her breathing speeding up, her heart racing. Adrenaline coursed through her, numbing the pain. Her legs drew up, her hands curling to claws, her spine bowing under the boiling rage that spilled from her body. Her scream was full of torment, betrayal slashing at every lucid thought she had. She pulled free of Mary, and clawed her way to the other side of the bed, crashing to the floor on her knees. The blankets tangled her around her legs, and she erupted from the floor, kicking free from them.

"_James!"_

She was screaming, screaming his name. Over and over, her voice as jagged and harsh as the wail she heard within her mind. She dodged Clay as he tried to tackle her, her body moving like liquid thought as she sprinted for the door. She blasted through the heavy oak panel, the door ricocheting off the wall, swinging on its hinges. She ran around the dumbstruck guards in the hall, moving past them as if they were statues.

Jaime tore through the castle, running to his room. It was at the end of the long stone corridor, and she snarled with incomprehensible rage fueled by betrayal as she kicked the door open, shattering the lock, pieces of metal and wood exploding into his room. The moon, waning now, still illuminated the room well enough for her to see inside, and she charged in.

Jaime ran for his wardrobe, ripping the finely carved panels away. She kept screaming, and she plunged her hands into the densely packed wardrobe. She ripped the expensive suits from the space, his familiar scent still strong after two years. His cologne, the scent of his suits, fueled her even more, and she ravaged what she could of him. He was out of reach, but his beloved Westwood suits weren't.

She dragged them behind her as she ripped them apart, heading for his desk. It was as he had left it, notes and papers, his ledger opened to the last page he looked at. Nothing in this room had been altered since the day he died, ordered untouched these last two years.

"Jaime, stop! You must stop sweetheart, you're hurting yourself!"

Mary was there, Clay beside her, and she brushed off their hands as they attempted to stop her. She felt the hot rush of blood spilling from her side, but her determination to destroy what she could of her bastard of a brother pushed her past all reasoning.

"_He lied! He always lied! James, you bastard! I'll kill him myself, I'll tear him apart, he will burn as all traitors do, my blade spilling his blood, his guts for the crows, and I'll take his head and ruin his handsome face!"_

"_Bhfeallaire! Betrayer!"_

Jaime reached the desk seconds ahead of Mary, and she savagely attacked his belongings, flinging knickknacks and mementos against the stone wall, glass and metal shattering in sprays of glittering shards. Jaime reached for another object to throw, and felt a sharp prick of a needle lance into her neck.

The sedative worked fast, her limbs refusing to comply. She drooped on her feet, Clay's strong arms collecting her to his chest. Mary was caressing her face, murmuring soothing nonsense sounds as she led Clay from Jim's room.

Jaime succumbed, and the rage simmered in her heart as false sleep claimed her. She slept, and dreamed of vengeance. This time, love would not sway her.

She learned his final lesson. Never trust love.


	58. Epilogue- Rest In Peace

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but by all the tea cups in England, he owns me!**

**A/N: To All-**

**This is the final chapter of PART II. As this is a TRILOGY, I will be back in TWO WEEKS with the first installment of PART III. I wish to thank everyone for staying with me thus far, and be prepared, PART III will a different beast than the previous two! **

**Thank you to all my readers, followers, reviewers, and fans. I will be back. And I'll be bringing the Big Bads, the Epic Loves, and the Major Angsts! Things are going to get evil, mean, ruthless, and all kinds of fucking sexy.**

**WARNING: This epilogue contains evil, lost loves, and pain. **

**Pay attention my dears, I'm leaving a trail of blood splatter to the villains of PART III!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 58<strong>

**Epilogue of Part II**

"_**Rest in Peace"**_

**December 31****st****, 4:00 AM**

**221B Baker Street**

Something was wrong. His mind was rebelling, casting him about, as if there was conflict between the rigid order he maintained and a wayward thought that struggled to free itself.

Sherlock gave in, and vowed to resolve the conflict from within. Let his mind free, to see what exactly was disturbing his equilibrium.

* * *

><p>"<em>I am always with you, Sherlock Holmes<em>."

This dream was rare, a foreign place out of alignment with the glorious order of his Mind Palace. His cityscape was usually a place of rigid, perfect control, even in his dreams. To now be watching this moment in time while fully aware he was asleep, but unable to stop it or control it, was unnerving and captivating. His mind must need to release this moment in time, to show himself something vital, something imperative for him to know.

Sherlock stood on the cold, wet street, the wind harsh and driving the rain before it, stinging his cheeks and eyes. It was late autumn, and the fire brought to mind long ago memories of bonfires and warm cider, cold damp air and dark figures in the fading light.

Flames roared in front of him, the clinic collapsed and partially destroyed by the explosion that ripped through the front of the building. He was stuck, firmly encased by his own traitorous mind in this one spot.

He was dreaming. Dreaming of the night John was taken from him, and he nearly lost his life to a dangerous woman with a broken heart. This was the night that Jaime Moriarty, known then as only Death, had laid a trap for him and John. Sherlock, in his arrogance and bloodthirsty need for vengeance, blithely walked into it, and nearly died.

Sherlock saw Mary and her remaining men leave the clinic, an SUV roaring up to the curb, doors opening and slamming shut, tires squealing as the vehicle sped off. He heard the crackle, the hiss of the flames, and he knew that at this moment within the living memory, he was attempting to drag himself free from the ruins of the clinic before the flames consumed him.

For all that Mary hadn't meant for him to die, her need for revenge, her need to assuage the pain in her scorned heart, nearly took his life in zealous execution of Death's plans. He recalled crawling, dragging his broken and bleeding body across the floor, fires burning, flames scorching, with dead bodies littering the front lobby of the clinic.

The memory changed, and so did his perspective. He was removed from the relative comfort of the icy street, and he felt his illusionary body convulse, become battered, ravaged by pain, covered in blood dripping from his lips, hands burning, surrounded by savage heat. He became the memory in whole, consumed by it. Whatever he needed to see was within this torment, this moment….

Smoke. Heat from flames, so near. The air was burning. Sherlock was burning.

He rested, face in the blood dripping from his lips, shallow gulps of air chasing back the darkness. Sherlock reached again, feeling the faint brush of cold night air from the door. He was so close, so very close. He refused to die in here, refused to let John suffer for his failure. Mary had said it was too late to stop Death, but not too late to follow. And Sherlock would follow Death. To Hell if need be. He already felt the flames.

"Sherlock!" He barely registered the sound, so loud were the roar of the flames. He ignored it, and reached up again, grabbing at the floor, and pulled. The pain rode over his mind, flooding his eyes with black spots, red ribbons of light. He pushed back at the pain, breathed again, and pulled as hard as he could.

The brush of cold air on his hand was his reward, but it came too late. Sherlock heard the creaking, the rumble above him, as the roof was devoured by the fires. He knew it was too late, it would fall on him any moment.

Sherlock was falling, the heat and flames withdrawing from his awareness. He fought to stay awake. It was so hard; his body had failed him. Sherlock was failing John.

"Sherlock!" It came again, that sound. Too late for him to realize what it was, as the darkness came back for him, pulling him under. He didn't feel the hands grab him under the arms, lifting and dragging him from the floor. All he could feel was that small flame burning in his soul, the flame that hissed John's name in the shadows.

The cold blast of the clean air once they reached the street invigorated him, briefly letting his eyes open against the pain, his thoughts fading even as his body attempted to revive his mind. He saw a figure above him, and knew this living shadow in the orange light cast by the flames held him safely, securely. Strong hands under his arms dragged him farther from the flames, the fire hissing in displeasure at being denied his death.

The shadow laid him gently on his back, hovering over him. A hand white in the flickering shadows and flames reached out, and cradled his cheek, cool to the touch yet strangely warm. It was a struggle to breathe, his lungs unable to get enough air to remain awake. The cold autumn air filled him anyway, and gave him the strength to see the face of his savior, hovering over him.

"Not yet, Sherlock. She has yet to finish her move in the game, and it'll soon be your turn. Can't play if you're dead, now can you? And I can't deny her this, her game. It's a treasure, no, a pleasure, to see her fulfill her potential at last." The whisper fluttered out softly over his face, the living shadow so close to him now he could see the dark, wild eyes. His eyes. The accent was familiar, the Irishman speaking in a fluid rhythm that ripped at his sanity, with a lyrical quality that entranced him even now.

His shadow was a ghost, a demon resurrected from the ashes of the past. Sherlock felt the shock override his mind's last defenses, his body succumbing to the stress. He was shutting down, and fast, unable to comprehend, unable to survive the bitter terror, the brutal rage, the sickening pleasure at seeing his long-dead adversary alive and well.

Jim Moriarty stroked his cheek gently, his hair longer than Sherlock recalled, hanging over his eyes, yet not enough to obscure the tantalizing insanity that drew Sherlock as an addict to his poison of choice.

"You'll live. I hear them coming for you even now. If you survive my sister, perhaps you and I can pick back up where we left off. I'll be watching…"

Sherlock collapsed, the wet pavement under him, the cold wind, and that strong, oddly reassuring hand caressing his face the last things he felt before the darkness took him under.

"I am always with you, Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

><p>Sherlock snapped awake, his whole body seizing. He remembered now, and every single cell in his body was revolting, demanding he expel the vile, roiling sense of satisfaction and anger that was welling up from within. Sherlock leapt from his chair, waking John as the doctor slumbered in his armchair beside the now long dead fire.<p>

Sherlock ran down the hall, and slapped open the bathroom door, making it to the toilet just in time to vomit violently into the bowl.

"Sherlock, love? You okay?" John asked him, entering the bathroom as Sherlock continued to get sick. John gently rubbed his back, easing the cramping muscles that made Sherlock heave again.

John stood, and filled a small cup from the sink, handing it over as Sherlock sat back on his lower legs, shaking violently. Sherlock rinsed his mouth, spitting into the toilet. He shakily got to his feet, John hovering, and he moved to the bedroom door. John helped him, and together they collapsed onto the bed.

John's warm hand brushed over his brow, and Sherlock let John tuck him in.

"You've got a fever, mild. I'll get some aspirin, and some more water. Be right back, love. Stay here."

Sherlock huddled under the covers, shaking, his whole body shocked numb and freezing by the revelation he experienced in his Mind Palace.

_He saved my life._

_Jim Moriarty is alive._

* * *

><p><strong>St Bart's Hospital<strong>

**5:00 AM**

**Anthea's Suite**

The tall stranger slipped easily into her room, his long shadow gliding behind him as he strode across the tiles, silent as a ghost. For that was what he was, a long dead ghost pulled from the past, cheered beyond measure that it was time. Time to stop hiding, to come home.

He stood over her supine form, elegant even as she slumbered. Her injuries were extensive, and he mourned the temporary loss of her beauty, her injuries marring the once perfect features. She was beautiful still, her rich brown hair tantalizing, and he reached out a long-fingered hand, gently carding through the soft tresses. He caught the faint scent of lilacs and some sort of fruit, and he smiled.

She was far more appealing than he was expecting, and he wondered what her eyes looked like. His intelligence on her said they were green, but surely so simple a descriptive could not be attributed to such a beauty as she. Surely she had eyes as green as the emerald depths of rainforests, as green as gems gracing the brow of the queen she reminded him of…. For she was a queen.

Mycroft's queen, to his king. And he was here to steal her from him. Mycroft was about to suffer a loss beyond his capacity to recover, and it would be the start of his undoing. He reached inside his long coat, and pulled out the syringe and vial. He measured out the necessary amount, and tapped the bubble free as he adjusted the dosage.

_All must be perfect. She is perfect. Exactly what I need._

_Suffer Mycroft, for she is now mine. I will come for you next, never fear. I have waited this long, I can wait as long as I need to… As long as is needed to bring you and everyone else to their knees. _

_I am coming for you, Mycroft._

The tall, elegant stranger injected Anthea's IV with the drug, smiling cheerfully as he did so. It would take effect soon, and he capped the syringe, taking one last look at her graceful visage as he backed away from the bed.

"I'll be back for you, my dear. Sleep, my love. Sleep, and forget," his voice was deep, a velvet rumble of upper class speech patterns and years spent abroad. He laughed as he stepped out into the empty hall, and he walked away. He heard the first off-beat beep from the monitor as he took the stairs, heading down to the guarded ward where John Woodley struggled to live.

Woodley's imminent death wasn't necessary for their plans, yet it dovetailed neatly with the tall stranger's desire to kill. Woodley had the gall to touch, to harm Violet Hunter, and Jaime Moriarty bled for her part in saving young Hunter. So he would satisfy his blood lust, and end Woodley.

His partner in tonight's lovely outing was waiting for him, the shorter man grinning at him in delight. The mania in his dark eyes danced along with his feet as they went down the stairs, the taller man smiling indulgently as his companion giggled in glee.

* * *

><p><strong>5:10 AM, Mycroft's Townhouse<strong>

Greg rolled over, blinking in dismay as he saw what time it was. The sun wasn't even up yet, and getting Mycroft to sleep had taken hours. He sat up in bed, and saw that Mycroft was still sleeping, undisturbed by the mobile chiming incessantly on the nightstand. Greg reached past the spymaster, intending to silence the mobile, but he saw the caller ID, and answered it instead.

"Hello?"

"Is this Mycroft Holmes? This is Nurse Cleary, from St Bart's."

"Mycroft is sleeping, what's going on? Is it Anthea? This is Detective Inspector Lestrade, tell me what's going on." His heart thumped hard in his chest, and Greg sat up completely, rubbing at his face.

"I regret to inform you sir, that at 5:02 this morning, Anthea passed. We attempted to revive her per Mr. Holmes's orders, but she was unresponsive. I'm so sorry for your loss."

"Oh God… no."

"Sir, I am sorry for your loss. We will be keeping her in her room until a new pathologist attends to her, as Dr Hooper has declined to perform her autopsy. If you wish to pay your last respects, we will wait for you to arrive."

"Of course…. I…. will we be there. Thank you." Greg dropped the mobile, the bright glow from the screen lighting up the blankets. Greg reached out with one arm, and rubbed Mycroft's shoulder.

"Greg? What's going on?" Mycroft grumbled at him, slowly rolling to his back. He reached out, and flipped on the small lamp on the nightstand. He looked at Greg, and Greg knew his expression said it all.

"Oh God, darling. I'm so sorry. That was Bart's; Anthea is gone." Greg's heart broke in two at the helpless and devastating expression than transformed Mycroft from the most powerful man in Britain to a man destroyed by loss.

* * *

><p><strong>5:20 AM<strong>

Violet stared at her mobile, the text from Greg glowing in the darkness of her room. She heard a soft chime come from downstairs, and within moments, she heard John stumbling down the hall. She stared at the text, and waited passively as John climbed the stairs, his tread as familiar to her as Sherlock's.

He knocked on the door, and carefully opened it. She watched as he stuck his head past the frame, and when he saw her awake, he crept in, gently closing the door behind him.

"I take it you got the same message from Greg?" John asked her gently, Violet nodded, and she clicked the Lock button, sending her mobile to sleep. Darkness came back to her room, and she bit her lip hard. A sob wracked her body, and she wrapped both arms over her head.

She felt the bed tip under John's weight as he gathered her in his arms, pulling her to his chest as her sobs wrenched free. Tears ran from her eyes, scalding hot down her cold face.

* * *

><p><strong>6:15 AM <strong>

**St Bart's**

Mycroft took his last look. She was free now of the bandages, the tubes and needles. She rested, sleeping now forever, at ease and free from pain. The fine lines that had stressed her lovely face were gone, a sign that even as she rested in the coma, pain had reached her. He ran his fingers through her hair one last time, touched her soft cheek, the pink blush of her lips.

Anthea was dead, gone now this hour past. The second he awoke at Greg's touch, his heart knew that she was gone. And with her she took a piece of his soul. He lived, he breathed, and he functioned only because Gregory was at his side, lending him voiceless support and strength.

"Mr. Holmes?"

It was the nurse, lurking in the doorway of Anthea's room, trying again to get his attention. They wanted to take her away, put her in the cold and lonely morgue, cut her open, and tear her to pieces.

"No." He shocked even himself at the vehemence and venom in that one word.

"Sir?"

"No. No autopsy. We all know why she died. How she died. You'll not destroy what's left of her in a prurient search for the exact piece of her that failed. I said NO."

"Mr. Holmes, it is our policy that we perform an autopsy…."

He finally lifted his gaze from Anthea's face, and skewered the nurse where she stood in the hallway. She stumbled back a step, hand at her throat, her face gone white at the rage he let seep past his mask. She looked for reinforcements, as if expecting him to leap across his angel and tear her apart. Gregory shifted on his feet, his hand holding Mycroft's securely, grounding him.

"Um… I'll explain the situation to the administrator, sir, and the new pathologist. I'll be right back." The nurse ran down the hall, her heels clacking loudly on the tiles.

A new shadow moved to the doorway, and Mycroft returned his attention to Anthea as Sally Donovan carefully entered the room. Greg squeezed his hand, before moving to his sergeant and speaking quietly.

_Anthea is dead._

He heard snippets of their conversation, mentions of Dr Hooper abstaining from performing an autopsy on Anthea, something about how Sally was feeling, and then a soft whisper that snagged his attention in full.

"Say that again," Mycroft demanded, his voice as cold as it ever was as the Iceman. Sergeant Donovan froze, and her eyes pleaded with Gregory to save her from Mycroft's sole attention.

"Mycroft, John Woodley is dead. He died about fifteen minutes after…. He died about an hour ago. Blood clots or something." Gregory slowly returned to his side, caution in every movement.

Mycroft shook hard, his whole body seizing in a wild rush of joy and bitter satisfaction that Anthea's killer was dead now at last. She was past the reach of pain, and so was Woodley, yet not one part of him found it in him to regret the drug lord's passing. If he hadn't died on his own, Mycroft would have finished him on his own, very messily, with a blunt scalpel and a bone saw. Woodley dying on his own freed Mycroft from having to bribe and dispose of too many witnesses, and he could now focus on her. On Anthea.

"Good. That's good. Let him burn to ash, and be forgotten by all."

_Anthea is dead._

Mycroft breathed past his chaotic emotions, and finally, at last, let go. The tears came now, fast and hard. They ripped from his chest, poured from his eyes, tore his carefully constructed façade of cold indifference to shreds. He was grief, and unfulfilled promise. The love he might have shared with Anthea was now naught but a wasted moment in time, and had Gregory not taken a chance on them both, Mycroft knew without a single doubt that Anthea would have been his in all ways. She was his partner, and it took her departure from his life to ram home just how deeply he loved her.

A greater love won the battle for his heart, yet the lesser love had been a vital and vibrant part of his life, and its loss was crippling.

Mycroft reached out blindly, and Gregory was there, his unselfish support shoring him up, as grief and anger, pain and loss rushed over him in a wave he couldn't escape.

* * *

><p><strong>Jan. 1<strong>**st****, 2:30 AM**

**St Bart's… The Morgue.**

"I promised you I would be back, my love. Shush now, don't be frightened. Soon the pain will be gone, and you can rest in peace. I'll be there, every moment, and you'll find no better companion in the months to come."

The stranger who visited her once before was back, whispering lovingly to her, his voice so familiar. He sounded like someone she knew, someone she cared for deeply. She drifted, anchorless in the sea of pain and confusion. She heard him, yet couldn't respond. She was so tired, and the pain wouldn't let her go. Her whole body hurt, and there was something wrong with her eyes. She couldn't open them, she couldn't see. She was so cold, and the powerful voice chased her, relentless, goading her thoughts as she struggled inside a body rendered useless.

"Is she ready to go? I'd rather not be here if my precocious ex-girlfriend decides to return and pay her last respects." The accent was familiar, the new voice even more so, yet she was too far removed from her own mind that she couldn't place him. "Though that would be rather exciting, wouldn't it? Maybe I should pay her a visit while I'm in town. Heard she's single now, might try my hand again."

"Are you attempting to make me jealous, my dear boy? You know how I feel about your flights of fancy. Though I do appreciate your forays into the romantic realm, always entertaining when the screaming starts."

"I know that's your favorite part… the screams…"

A sickly ingratiating giggle filled the emptiness of the cold room, and a deep chuckle answered.

"I have her now, my dear boy. It's your turn….. I know you won't disappoint me."

"Have I ever?" Asked the lyrical voice, somehow seeming younger than the profoundly provocative owner of that rich chuckle, while still sounding dangerous, and somehow vicious.

"Only once, and you've been making it up to me ever since…"

"And I keep telling you, I let him win on purpose…"

She drifted in the grey abyss as her body was moved, gently lifted and carted about. A strong, warm chest cradled her, arms like steel bands lifting her, holding her tenderly. She found a strange comfort in his embrace, the sensation akin to one she'd felt only once before. She tried to recall that long ago embrace, yet the man who held her distracted her wayward thoughts. She smelled the iron bite of blood and freshly chipped wood, smoke and seawater.

* * *

><p><strong>January 2<strong>**nd****, 11:00 PM**

**Scotland Yard Processing Center, Inmate Intake Holding Cells**

Getting in was easy, child's play. In fact, he felt like a child now, skipping slightly on his toes, his suit straining the tiniest amount across his lithe shoulders as he danced to a tune only he could hear. Well, if he had ever had the luxury of being a child in truth he couldn't remember it now, and so he spun the illusion of what it would be like for himself as he perused the cells that lined the wall to his left. The hall was long, the old ceramic tiles gone a sickly green with age, polished by the traffic of countless bound men and women, heads hung low in despair, or raging against the unfairness of it all.

He relished in the whispers of agony and anger, and he was glad his older companion was not present on this little side trip of his, as he would not appreciate the frivolity with which he was treating this task.

He was short compared to most men, yet nothing in his frame suggested fragility. He was lean, wiry, yet his face had a boyish air to it, even with the lurking madness that flashed in his dark eyes, reminiscent of lightning striking within ink black thunderclouds. His dark brown hair was wavy, thick, and longer than he usually kept it, but the appraising looks he got from people as he passed indicated that it was worth keeping that long, if merely to tickle his vanity.

The hall was dark, but for the emergency lights that cast off a dull glow every five yards or so, leaving the inhabitants of the cells a margin of darkness in which to attempt sleep. The scent of unwashed bodies, the odor heightened by fear, stress, and anger clung to every surface, and permeated the jailhouse from lobby to shitters.

He giggled, the faint sound traveling far in the subdued environment, the scattered few prisoners instinctively aware, on some deep level, that danger walked among them. Even the most brutal of them averted their eyes as he passed, a devil dressed in a fine, expensive suit tailored exactly to his sculpted frame.

"Where oh where can you be, oh Peter…. Peter, dear, don't be shy….." his whisper snuck through the bars of the cells, and the searcher paused at the one he wanted, the cells on either side barren of occupants. He would have this conversation in private, and all the better for it.

He placed both hands on the bars of the cell, at head height, and leaned forward, the dim lights of the hall lamps providing just enough illumination for him to see the frail creature huddled on the floor beside the cell's lone bench.

"Helloooo, Peter." The searcher said, his voice full of mischief and malice. "Care to have a visit with me?"

"You're dead," came the sniveling reply, as Peter lifted his head from his skeletal arms, dirty face reflecting his disbelief at seeing the man before him. "I'm high and seeing things."

"Oh, Peter. I am indeed dead. But then, sooo many people are these days. Everyone keeps dying, and coming back to life, do they not? I did it, my companion did it, and even the Great Detective did it! It's all the rage now, haven't you heard?"

His giggle spread out like a fog through the bars, inescapable. It was not childish at all, but infested by purest mania. He snickered as Peter reacted to it, shrinking back against the bench, eyes widening as doubt fled, and he truly believed that the searcher was real, and not the remnants of Winter's Night in his veins.

"What…. What do you want from me, sir?" Peter dared to ask, and the searcher caught the fleeting hope in the faded eyes of the junkie that all this meant he would at last be free, his body left to grow cold on the unforgiving tiles of his cell.

"Tell me of her," the searcher snapped, a fierce pride burning in those clipped words. "And do not lie, and say you don't know who I'm speaking of."

Peter gulped, and the searcher saw in him the second he capitulated, and gave himself over to a new master. The searcher grinned, and waited.

"She came out of the air like a fury, sir. One of those old tales of women warriors, taking men on the battlefield. She killed Woodley's men like they were nothing, every action was effortless. She terrified me."

"As she has many a man. Go on."

"She beat Woodley down to red meat, left him on the floor for Scotland Yard to pick up."

"That's not all Peter. I see you hesitating to tell me something. Must I join you in there, and help you find your courage?"

"Okay! Okay! She got shot!"

"WHO SHOT HER?" The searcher shouted, his polite yet manic attitude evaporating, spittle flying from his lips, eyes flashing with that hidden lighting. The cells and their occupants blinked, and froze, awaiting the outcome from within Peter's cell.

The scent of urine reached the searcher, and he curled his lip in distaste as Peter pissed himself in terror. He was about to open the cell and go in there, when Peter's helpless answer reached him through the shadows.

"She killed the men who tried to kill her. She killed them as they bore down on her and Violet Hunter, even as she bled out on the floor. I saw the whole thing, and if I hadn't, I still wouldn't believe it."

"She has killed many men, what's so unbelievable about it?" The searcher returned to his volatile polite façade, a small smile on his lips.

"She…. She stepped in front of Violet Hunter, and took the shots meant for her. She sacrificed herself. I know who she is, I know who you are, and that's why I don't believe it."

The searcher stepped back from the bars, confusion clouding his handsome face. He tilted his head to the side, eyes far away, with his thoughts spinning quickly. As suddenly as he retreated from the world, he was back, eyes pinning Peter to the floor of the cell. He grinned, a feral expression full of malice.

"This is an unexpected twist, Peter. Many thanks for explaining. I appreciate the hospitality, though you may want to clean up your mess before you get more company." The searcher made to leave, plucking at his cufflinks, straightening out his sleeves.

"You're not going to…." Peter let his voice fade away, the lost light of his eyes dimming.

"You shall live, Peter. I have uses for you yet. Stay here, cooperate, and tell them _nothing_." The searcher stressed that last word, hissing it through his teeth. "I shall tell you when to speak, and you will not suffer for obeying me."

"Yes, Master."

"I don't think I'll ever tire hearing that from you, how lovely. Laters!"

* * *

><p><strong>January 3<strong>**rd**

**Boxgrove, West Sussex**

Sherlock walked along the cold pathway, John at his side, both of them dressed somberly in dark suits, fitting the dull atmosphere of the cemetery. Violet walked up ahead between Mycroft and Lestrade, her long black dress at odds with her usually vivacious personality.

Molly Hooper and Sally Donovan had already left, wary of Mycroft's tumultuous aura, as if the spymaster was a heartbeat from collapse or manic rage. Only Violet and Lestrade seemed immune to Mycroft's disdain, the spymaster letting them both near in a way that left Sherlock and John on the outside.

The ceremony was short, and to the point, Anthea's remains reduced to ash, interred in her hometown. Mycroft remained silent through it all, not a single emotion leaking past his iron-clad control. Sherlock had made one attempt to approach his brother, only to be rebuffed politely, as if a stranger.

Sherlock saw in Mycroft the need to blame someone for her death, and as Woodley was past punishment, it was Sherlock who took the full force of Mycroft's bitterness and anger. Lestrade tried to buffer the brothers, yet Sherlock knew his brother well, and stepped back, returning to John's side without a word.

"He'll come around, love. Give him time. It's only been a few days." John tried to reassure him, and Sherlock tugged him closer, under his arm as they returned to the waiting limos.

"I'll not hold my breath waiting for that eventuality, John. He blames me, and by extension you, for her passing. We were there after all, regardless of the attempt on your life at the time. So we shall suffer his absence, which is preferable to his wrath. If not for Violet and Lestrade, I think we'd both be in Eastern Europe at the moment."

"What? There's no way he'd do that, you're his brother. I know he loves you, Sherlock."

"He loved her more."

Speaking that truth was as brutal as ripping away a bandage, and Sherlock pondered why it hurt to such a degree. He knew this day would come, eventually. That the day would arrive that Mycroft would turn from him, and let their tenuous connection go, regardless of the cause, be it real, or illusionary. He knew Mycroft loved him, and he also knew that love could be soured to become hate. The longer Mycroft nurtured the pain in his heart, and the blame he harbored for Sherlock, the more likely it was that his remaining brother would come to hate him.

John had no reply, and Sherlock buried his face in the soft hair behind his doctor's ear, breathing in his scent. John was all he needed, and he felt the ring on his finger, a constant reminder that no matter how dark life became, how deeply buried one may be beneath pain and loss, nothing stayed the same. Eventually the sun came out, the earth warmed, the wind rose in the west and pushed away the clouds.

"Let's go home, John. Mrs. Hudson is waiting on us, presumably with tea and biscuits."

"She's been feeding us a lot, hasn't she? Poor woman has been out of sorts since you gave Bear back to Carruthers and Little Vincent." John hugged him around the waist, offering comfort.

He'd sent for Bear on New Year's Eve, the car service rather put out to be fetching a massive beast of a dog on the year's biggest party night. Just yesterday Sherlock and John had reunited Bear with his tiny master, the little boy overjoyed to see his 'puppy'. Bear was beside himself, so happy he knocked over Carruthers, sat on Vincent, and licked the boy senseless as he giggled happily.

"I'm surprised you gave him back. I was certain you were going to keep Bear."

Sherlock was quiet, and he slowed their pace. The others pulled ahead, and Sherlock sighed as the rest of his family took a turn on the path, disappearing from sight.

"A long time ago, when I was a child, I had a dog named Redbeard. He was my must loyal companion, and dearest friend. I loved him more than anything, and the greatest loss of my childhood was the day he died. Of course I gave Bear back to Vincent."

"I saw a picture of you and a setter pup in your old room. Was that Redbeard?"

"Yes, that was him." Sherlock felt his heart give a faint twinge in pain, thinking of his first and truest friend, the feel of silky fur under his hand, the soft touch of a tongue joyfully giving him kisses. Redbeard walked along with them even know, and Sherlock smiled as his mind provided the ghost image of his Irish Setter darting among the gravestones of the cemetery, tail high and flagging, and his nose buried in the grass as he gamboled about.

Sherlock and John continued along the path, sharing warmth between them as a bitter winter rain began to fall. It was light, yet cold, and soon would turn to snow. Sherlock let the vision of Redbeard fade, the comfort he got from that momentary lapse into sentiment worth the nagging doubt at allowing himself that weakness.

The first flakes fell as they cleared the final boundaries of the cemetery, their limo purring at the curb. The other was long gone, another sign of the separation between Sherlock and his brother. He took it in stride, mindful of John's snort of anger at Mycroft's callous behavior.

Sherlock gathered John to his side as they settled back on the lush leather seats, and the powerful rumble of the limo was the only sound as they left Boxgrove Cemetery behind.

It was a long drive back to London, and Sherlock watched as the streets flashed by outside his window. He saw the lives of the people who existed for a second before being replaced by another view, and he idly catalogued and analyzed the world they passed as they traveled north.

He had yet to share his epiphany of Moriarty's continued existence with the good doctor. The mourning of the last few days was a welcome respite from the overwhelming knowledge crowding his mind, and every part of him ached to tell John even now. His niece and his lover steadfastly avoided Violet and Mary's concerns over the location of Moriarty's 'body', leaving Sherlock to deal with it for the current time, especially after Anthea's passing. He would wait before discussing it with his lover, savoring these last few peaceful hours together, as they all mourned the passing of a singular, brave soul. Once they returned to life on Baker Street, and their hearts given a rest, only then would Sherlock tell John that Moriarty was alive.

An interminable amount of time passed before John stirred at his side, the doctor blinking sleepily up at him. The soothing motions of the suspension was lulling the good doctor to sleep, and Sherlock smiled at him as John gave up the battle with his exhaustion. John spent the last three days comforting Violet, the young hacker refusing to let John go, her grief as deep and abiding as Mycroft's.

Just before sleep took him, John whispered to Sherlock in the soft quiet that filled the rear of the limo.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

"I love you, Dr. John Watson."

* * *

><p><strong>End of Part II<strong>

** Part III will begin with the next chapter. **

**Posting in two weeks.**

**... All families contain a shadow, a hint of malice and evil. Whether we acknowledge it or not, evil is always with us.**


	59. Part III- Body Counts

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, but he owns me. **

**A/N: Welcome all, to the beginning of the Third, and Final, Part of my epic trilogy, 'Forever Yours, Sherlock'. This chapter is the introduction to Part III. The final act if you will, and as such, it is the summation of all the major and minor plots left unresolved within the previous two installments.**

**I want to thank Silvereyedbitch, as she is my sounding board, and generous editor. I really couldn't have maintained this level of quality without her incessant desire for more. Love you babe!**

**WARNING: Sex, Violence, Snark, Tears, and one helleva OH MY GAWD moment. Don't miss a thing dearies, and enjoy.**

**Next chapter in about 10 days.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 59 <strong>

**Introduction of Part III**

"_**Body Counts"**_

**January 15****th**

**London, New Scotland Yard**

Winter moved in permanently across London, the bone-crushing cold biting and gnawing its way through the depressed hearts of her citizens. The previous autumn had been a grave injury to the hearts and minds of every inhabitant, and the deep cold that followed on that fiery season of vengeance was enough to break even the most cheery of souls.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade ducked his head against the wind as he stepped free from the black town car, nodding at the driver as he was informed to text or call when he was ready to be taken home. Greg was eager to get on with his day, the last two weeks wearing down his spirits.

Living with Mycroft Holmes wasn't easy, although he truly hadn't expected it to be when he agreed to move in last month. Mycroft was a strong-minded individual, determined to run everything, even his love life, in a certain way. Usually that was Greg's way too, and he had no complaints that Mycroft kept tabs on him throughout his workday. Mycroft arranged for him to be driven to work, and the car was ever ready to take him home regardless of the time in the evenings. Greg left his BMW at the Yard, to be used when he had to leave to go to crime scenes or about town on short notice.

What was beginning to drive Greg slightly insane was Mycroft's ever-present protective detail. He spied the nondescript duo in the generic suits pacing him in the crowd outside New Scotland Yard as he walked towards the main entrance, and he'd given up trying to convince them, and his lover, that he could manage a day sitting at his desk repairing the damage done to his department after a two-month absence on his part from getting shot.

The department really hadn't been mismanaged, but Sergeant Donovan spent most of her time in charge guarding her back from petty detective inspectors and securing his empty position while he was on medical leave, and not enough time actually running the Homicide Department. Cases got put on the back burner, others closed without proper follow through, and many others weren't even being touched yet, just shuffled around from desk to desk.

Today was his second day back at the Yard, officially. He'd been temporarily reinstated two weeks prior when the late Master Chemist, John Woodley, had kidnapped Mycroft's niece Violet Hunter, and fatally injured Mycroft's longtime aide and best friend Anthea.

Violet was subsequently rescued by Sherlock Holmes and John Watson (along with the help of a mysterious personage that both men and Violet refused to name, claiming the identity of their unnamed 'friend' was unimportant), and it was just over a day after her attack that Anthea succumbed to her injuries and passed away.

Greg faltered as he traveled the last few meters to the glass doors of the Yard, thinking of the lovely woman whose death nearly destroyed Britain's most powerful man. Greg wasn't jealous of the love Mycroft had for her, the love he still harbored in his heart for Anthea. He hadn't been jealous when she was alive, a fact that left him still to this day surprised. Mycroft mourned her every day, and Greg didn't see his grief dissipating anytime soon. Greg was glad that Mycroft leaned on him for support, that Mycroft still reached for him at night, and that the passion between them was still as strong now as it was when they first kissed months ago.

One of the nameless government guard dogs reached the glass doors to the lobby strides before him, and discreetly opened the door for him. Greg bit back a scathing remark about being able to open his own doors, and just nodded curtly before walking through.

"Good morning, Detective Inspector. Cold start to the day, eh?" Greg was greeted by Gerry, a member of the security detail that manned the public lobby, as he pulled his badge and credentials free from under his coat, signing in at the roster. Greg just smiled at the old timer, and took the armed officer's bypass around the metal detectors stationed across the hall accessing the lifts. He was in no mood to talk today, not with the loaner goon squad dogging his heels through the lobby.

Greg ignored his guards as they followed him through the bypass after signing in, and he decided to have some fun on this somber morning. He walked to the main bay of lifts, not waiting for his two guards to finish signing in. He hit the button, and the lift opened, and he darted in. The doors closed just as the two men walked swiftly towards the lift, and Greg grinned with glee. He hit every button on the floor panel, and immediately got off on the next floor, running for the stairs. The lift next to the one he had been on was heading up to the floor Homicide was on, and Greg entered the stairwell and ran down the single flight back to the main lobby.

He hit the main lobby, and sedately turned to head for the small café that fed most of the building on a daily basis. He smelled the rich scent of freshly brewed coffee and sweet pastries, and found his mouth watering despite the gourmet meal Mycroft's chef had prepared for him that morning. Greg was a walking cliché when it came to coffee and pastries.

_Hijinks and coffee. Mmmmm… I smell pastries. _

His mobile buzzed at him just as he got in line at the café, and he knew who was calling him before he even saw the Caller ID. He answered, and smiled as he greeted the bound-to-be annoyed man on the other end of the line.

"Good morning."

"Gregory." Mycroft was indeed annoyed, and trying his best not to show it. Greg heard the tiny sigh of exasperation the spymaster gave as he puttered about in the vast bunker under his townhouse, the echo telling Greg exactly where he was.

"Hey, darlin'." Greg grinned, and pointed to the pastry in the café display case he wanted, as the barista, whom he dealt with every morning for the last few years gave him his usual large black coffee.

"Don't 'darling' me, Gregory Lestrade. Did you just duck your protective detail?"

"Yes I did." Greg sipped his coffee as he awkwardly accepted his pastry in its thin paper bag, and he meandered back toward the lifts in the lobby.

"Care to explain why?" Mycroft was all soft, silken, polite tones, and Greg shivered as he realized Mycroft was very upset with him. He would tread carefully…usually. That tone of voice did things to Greg and portions of his anatomy, and the only thing that kept him from provoking Mycroft further was the tiny hint of vulnerability he could hear in his lover's words.

"Mycroft. I'm a grown man, a fully armed and experienced inspector. I'm over forty, I haven't been rendered an invalid, and I can still remember where I live and who I am. I don't need nursemaids."

Greg sipped his coffee as the lift in front of him opened, and he grinned at the two disgruntled guards as they stepped back, letting him on the lift. The one closest to the floor panel hit the appropriate number for his floor, and both men were acting like he was a recalcitrant suspect being taken for questioning.

"I know all that, Gregory."

"Then why the guards, darlin'?"

He heard nothing from the spymaster for a moment, just the hollow sounds of people speaking to each other in the large bunker Mycroft used as his base of operations.

"The guards aren't for your sake. The guards are there for mine."

Greg exhaled, feeling like an ass. Ever since Anthea's passing, Mycroft was tense, his control held on a razor's edge. As if even the slightest thing could set him off, make his composure snap. If putting guards on Greg made him feel better, Greg figured he'd have to deal with them. For now. He caught one of the guards glaring at him out of the corner of his eye, and gave him a faint smile in apology in return.

"Alright darling. They can stay. No interference at crime scenes, and absolutely no guns out in public when I'm working unless Britain's getting invaded, you hear? And they are NOT touching my car. No one drives the BMW but me or one of my officers, got it?" Greg knew Mycroft could care less about his car or the crimes scenes, he just needed to put his own conditions on this arrangement so Mycroft didn't think he was caving just to make him feel better.

"I'll convey your wishes to the security detail. Please don't dodge them again, Gregory. I couldn't…. If I lost you…." Mycroft's soft sigh reached him over the phone, and Greg felt like an even bigger ass at the sadness he could hear in that one sound.

"You won't lose me, I promise. I'll play nice with my new best friends." Greg ignored the smirk he got from the man at the floor panel at his words, and waiting impatiently for the lift to get to his floor. "You'll be around for dinner? You were up before me, I didn't get to see you before I left for work."

"Thank you, Gregory. And yes, I should be there for dinner. As soon as I get myself a new assistant, my schedule should even out…"

Greg winced at this reminder of Anthea's absence, her void in Mycroft's life affecting everything, even the banal details of planning out the spymaster's day. He needed to change the subject, and fast. The doors opened on the floor for Homicide, and Greg bit back a frustrated snarl as one of the guards got off first, the other waiting with him until the first guard nodded it was clear.

_I'm NOT a target in my own precinct, dammit!_

"Well, I'll see you tonight, Mycroft. I love you."

"I love you, Gregory. I'll see you at home."

Mycroft hung up, and Greg stared at the mobile, thinking this whole relationship thing with the most powerful man in Britain was going to take some getting used to. He should be okay with it all by the time they were in their eighties and in a nursing home.

He stepped free from the lift, and entered his domain, grinning in satisfaction as everyone scurried around, like kids caught goofing off in class before the teacher walked in the room. It was good to be back.

Time to catch some killers.

"Boss! We got a weird one!" Sally called to him as soon as he cleared the main squad floor, nearing his office.

"How weird?" he inquired, smiling as Sally grabbed her jacket from her desk outside his door, files in one hand, gun in her other.

"Think you need to call your favorite freak for this one Boss, just from the description alone."

_Just like old times. God I love this job._

* * *

><p><strong>January 15<strong>**th**

**London**

The blood was frozen, a macabre ice flow locked in a nightmarish display as it ran down the side of the roof, coating the shingles in a thick layer, running over the lip of the backed up gutters, dripping with still-life perfection in icicles down to the alley four stories below.

The naked body itself was flung casually across the apex of the roof, the neck laid wide open by a deep, single slash from ear to ear. The cut was so deep that the white of the neck vertebrae could be seen past the wine-red of the separated flesh, stained with the blood that ran everywhere. The rest of the body was a maze of slashes, cuts, lacerations that entangled in each other in a display of viciousness that left the crime scene techs vomiting off the side of the roof. On the opposite side of the building from where the blood flow went, of course.

Sherlock stepped over his tether, careful not to disturb the rope that was meant to keep him from falling off the roof and falling to his death. The look on John's face when the crane operator attached the safety harness and rope to Sherlock as they got lifted to the roof hadn't been lost on him, and he knew full well that his doctor was recalling the last time he was on a roof, except that time he didn't have a rope.

The wind carried the bottom of Sherlock's Belstaff out behind him, caressing his face and chest, moving his curls in chaotic patterns as he danced around the body and the blood. John was at the edge of the roof, still in the basket on the crane, with Lestrade and Donovan at his side. There was really only enough room with the corpse to have one person up there at a time, and everyone had magnanimously decided to let Sherlock handle the scene first. The techs hung like crows on the edge of the rooftop on the other side of the weathervane, a large Gothic piece of twisted iron and stone that looked original to the house.

"It's bloody colder than a detective inspector's welcome in a brothel out here, Sherlock! You got anything?" Lestrade's time away hadn't lessened his impatience any, and Sherlock ignored him in favor of getting a better view of the body.

He held up one hand imperiously in Lestrade's direction, commanding silence. Sherlock stood up straight, and looked out across the vista provided by his perch on top of the building.

It was midday, London overcast as it always was in winter, the grey ubiquitous across the horizon. The wind was strong, coming from the north, a steady unending ribbon of movement at this height. Most of the buildings here in this part of town were all the same height, between four and six stories tall. This was the tallest for at least two blocks in any direction, and it had the most peculiar roof among them all. The building was one of the few that retained a majority of its original architecture, unchanged in the hundreds of years since it was built in the height of the Gothic era. The weathervane itself was untouched, and highly original.

The body was resting at the foot of the weathervane as if it was an offering to the monster woven in black iron and stone that leered down at them all from its lofty position. Sherlock turned carefully on the slick roof, mindful of the ice on the ancient shingles. He stared upwards at the weathervane, and decided that the killer had a serious flare for the melodramatic. This entire scene was dramatic, with a degree of showmanship that Sherlock only ever saw in serial killers.

He pulled out his mobile, and zoomed in on the weathervane, snapping several pictures when the wind placed it in an optimal direction. He tucked away his mobile, and turned back to the body, and saw in the cuts and slices a lack of the random; whoever did this had cut these seemingly meaningless patterns before. Whoever this killer was, he or she was a veteran hand in dealing death.

"Caucasian female, early to mid-twenties. Athletic, decent shape. From her hands and feet, and the state of the skin that hasn't been maimed, she went to a spa or clinic on a regular basis. Features are free of makeup, yet clean, eyebrows waxed. Minor surgical alterations to her jawline and the bridge of her nose. Conforms to societal expectations of what people would call a 'classical beauty'. Hair is dyed, obviously, as we are lacking a matching set." Sherlock ignored the snickering from the techs, focusing on the body at his feet. He heard John choke back a laugh, and sent his doctor a quick sideways look from under his lashes.

"From the amount of blood, and the minimal cast off from the other wounds, I say the fatal injury to the neck was delivered first, the body mutilations secondary. She was dead before he began his art. He killed her up here, and then took his time with her afterwards. From the current temperatures, and the state of the body, I'd say she's been dead for ten hours. Most likely got time of death around midnight or one AM."

Sherlock moved towards her head, the only part of her untouched by the blades used on her body. He gently moved a strand of hair away from the left side of her face, and he smiled when he saw the Latin script under the delicate shell of her ear.

'_Esse quam videri_.' _Better than an actual ID card._

"Do you have an ID on her yet?" Sherlock called to Lestrade over the wind, and looked up from where he was crouching next to the body to see the Inspector shake his head in negative. Sherlock got out his mobile, and went hunting among the Missing Persons list from the last forty-eight hours, narrowing his search by his new parameters until he found the picture he wanted.

_Perfect match. Hello, Cassandra. Apologies for finding you thus._

Sherlock tucked his mobile back, saving the screen where it was. He stood, and the wind lifted his coat again, fluttering it out behind him like a great black wing, the wind flowing around him with the intimacy of a lover. He smelled the vaguest hints of blood as the roof warmed even under the grey skies, and the random hint of exhaust, even four floors up and traffic light. Sherlock winked at John, and gave Lestrade what he needed.

"Cassandra Hunter-Smythe, twenty-one, senior at Bedford College at the University of London. Reported missing yesterday morning by her dorm mate when she didn't return home from a trip to the Kensington Library the night before. From the state she's in, I'd say the killer had her from the night she went missing. The cuts aren't random, there's no hesitation marks or wavering in the designs or the placement. No skipped or incomplete cuts. He's done this before, many times. And his chosen place for displaying her body is a very deliberate message to the authorities. He dropped her here, for the whole of the world to see his work. An advert for his arrival in London."

Sherlock stepped around her body, and lightly worked his way over to the crane, the line loose from where it hung from his hips. Lestrade was looking at him in a peculiar fashion, while Donovan was just shaking her head. John was smiling, a faint lift to his lips that told Sherlock that the primary thought running through John's head at that moment was something along the lines of 'amazing' or 'brilliant'. He accepted John's helping hand as he made the box, and stepped clear of the roof. He pulled the latching panel shut behind him.

"Okay, I know you're dying to tell me how you know all that." Lestrade grimaced, but there was a sparkle in his dark eyes that let Sherlock know he wasn't upset.

"There's a tattoo behind her left ear. '_Esse quam videri'_, Latin for 'To be, rather than to seem', a popular motto among the students of Bedford College at the University of London. Majority of the tattoos the young women get who attend Bedford is that particular phrase, and behind the left ear is a popular place for it." Sherlock dug out his mobile, and offered the lit up screen to Lestrade, showing Cassandra's Missing Person picture.

"Her age, fitness level, and the cosmetic surgery all fall in line with an upper-middle to upper-class college student. The ink under her nails, and the slight curvature of her fingers tells me she spent a lot of time reading actual books, and not too much time on a computer or smartphone. Makes sense, as the last place she was seen was the Kensington Library two nights ago."

"The killer is a seasoned pro, Lestrade. He has extreme self-confidence, as he did his killing out in the open, not to mention it was four stories up on a very precarious roof. This part of town is well lit at night, and traffic is moderate. Anyone looking up last night might have seen him."

"And shall I point out the wind? It's been blowing like this the last few days, and at the angle he dropped her, and the direction of the wind traveling, he would be covered in her blood. He had the audacity to commit murder in a busy section of town, on a weekend night, and then walk away covered in his victim's blood. I doubt he took the time to change. Has this crane been here long?"

"A week or so, doing repairs to the building's fire escapes," Donovan spoke up, her tone grudging.

_The Universe is rarely so lazy. I doubt this is coincidence._

"Did he use what was available, or did he arrange it to be here for him to use? Adaptable, and opportunistic, and highly intelligent. Canvas for witnesses, of course. Someone saw at least a portion of last night's activities."

John disconnected Sherlock's safety harness and rope, and the crane operator hit the button to take them back down. Sherlock kept talking, taking advantage of his captive audience as the crane lowered at a snail's pace.

"He took a healthy, young, athletic female from a public place, and I didn't see any signs of a fight on her. No defensive wounds. He may have drugged her at the end or during her captivity right up until he killed her, but I'm going to assume he used good old fashioned charm to get her alone initially. So, I'm again presuming, but let's say he's a passably handsome fellow, and has the personality to put a young woman at ease with a stranger."

The passengers of the crane's box were all staring at him, John the only one who didn't look overwhelmed by Sherlock's deductions. He always saw this look on people, how boring it must be to be them. Everything he was telling them was clear as day to him, everything they needed to know was there. The body, the crime scene gave them all they needed. This was easy, too easy. Finding this killer would be slightly harder, but reading the messages in the blood and body was barely enough to motivate him out of the flat.

"He chose that roof for a reason. The weathervane is highly unique, an original to the building. I'll have to do some research, but I believe the building's history, what the weathervane is depicting is why he chose that place. It suited his ego, and he identifies with it for some reason. All the truly smart ones need an audience, and he's done everything but sign his name to tell us who he is. That's arrogance, pure ego, and an affinity for drama."

"Serial killer then, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked him, a grim note of resigned finality to his words, and Sherlock nodded in the affirmative.

"Yes. Check for other missing women, same type as Ms. Hunter-Smythe, and don't just focus on London either. We would have noticed a serial killer with this kind of flair in town if he'd been here for any amount of time."

"Gotcha."

"I'll need to see the body once you've had it delivered to Molly at Bart's. The location wasn't conducive to further examination."

"Not a problem. I've already alerted her, she's expecting the two of you sometime this afternoon. Body will be down and at Bart's in about three hours."

"Excellent! John and I have somewhere we need to be in the meantime. Have Molly call me when she's ready, she knows not to start without me," Sherlock said just before he leapt over the railing from the crane box, making John sigh in grudging amusement. Lestrade cursed as he plummeted to the ground, until the detective inspector saw how far it actually was.

The fall was only five feet or so, and Sherlock grinned back up at his doctor, not bothered by the glower being sent his way. He moved out of the way as the box descended to the ground, and everyone piled out.

Sherlock caught his mobile as Lestrade tossed it back to him, and pulled up his cab app, calling for one as John joined him on the sidewalk.

"Where you off to in such a hurry? Usually you'd be all over this, demanding to look at old case files or hounding me to rush the coroner to move the body." Lestrade joined them at the sidewalk, and Sherlock grinned as John coughed into his hand, his face getting red. "Okay, now I have to know. What're you two up to?"

"We have an appointment with a wedding planner," Sherlock deadpanned to Lestrade as he checked his email on his mobile He drifted away as Lestrade's eyes went wide and John dissolved into a coughing fit that sounded a lot like laughter. Sherlock wiggled his left hand at Lestrade, the engagement ring flashing in the soft winter light.

"Oh. Oh… okay." Lestrade appeared captivated, and yet horrified, by the concept, and Sherlock cocked a brow at him, wondering what was so engrossing about going to see a wedding planner. He did accept John's proposal after all, and weddings usually occurred after those, did they not?

John was all out laughing now, gasping every time he caught a look at the expression on Lestrade's face. Sherlock just rolled his eyes, and started off for the street corner, his app telling him the cab was minutes away. He sent a negligent wave over his shoulder as John caught up to him and Lestrade called out his goodbyes.

He was almost out of hearing range when he heard Donovan ask Lestrade in her typical snarky and disbelieving tone-

"How does Sherlock know about the types of tattoos that attractive female coeds have?"

Sherlock saw a news fan and crew setting up on the far corner outside the police cordon, and hurried John along down the sidewalk towards their newly arrived cab. John saw them as he laughed at Donovan's comment, and gave a jaunty salute to the camera as they slipped inside the cab.

* * *

><p><strong>London<strong>

**Dream Escape Weddings and Events, Inc.**

"Sherlock, stop poking around in the man's cabinets, and come sit down!" John hissed at his lover as Sherlock casually unlocked the next drawer in the row of oak cabinets lining the wall of the opulent office. They were waiting on their wedding planner, who, at five minutes late, was seriously making Sherlock doubt the man's 'planning' capabilities.

_John said he wanted a nice wedding… This is so boring. Who needs a planner? Say 'I do' when prompted, exchange rings, sign a paper. He's lucky I like seeing him smile._

"If he didn't want people to pry, he would've used better locks. I'm not the only one who's picked these locks, at least….two...no, three separate times this lock had been forced, and I'm seeing the same on the others. What's so interesting about other people's weddings that filing cabinets get broken into on a regular basis?" Sherlock mused, and he ignored the blonde doctor glaring at him over his shoulder from where he was sitting beside the large mahogany desk.

"Sherlock! Someone's coming, don't you dare get us kicked out of here!" John hissed at him, and Sherlock slammed the filing cabinet shut just as a small, bird-like, white haired man in round wire framed glasses stepped through the office door, smiling when he caught sight of them. He was about five feet tall, and moved like a dancer; graceful, with small, gliding steps.

"Gentlemen, such a pleasure to see you today! Dr Watson, I presume? And the great Sherlock Holmes! I say sir, you look taller on the television!" The tiny man gushed as he shook John's hand, before appearing to skip joyfully in Sherlock's direction, using both of his small soft hands to shake hands with the detective.

Sherlock quirked a single brow at the tiny man as he held his hand far longer than was common, before turning lightly on his heels and seating himself behind his desk. His armchair was huge, and Sherlock smirked to himself as the tiny man appeared to hover on it, sitting far higher than he should in a chair that size.

_There's some form of a booster seat in the leather cushion. Vanity? Or practicality? Or both?_

"Come sit sir, come sit!" The small man motioned Sherlock over, and he grudgingly sat in the chair beside John, his doctor taking his hand as he did. John smiled tightly at Sherlock, and he wondered if it was because of the tiny man, or Sherlock's propensity for snooping that dropped the tension on his doctor's shoulders and around his mouth. The small man beamed at the sight of them holding hands, and he continued on. "Now, my name is Jeremiah Bradbury. I apologize for being late, I was helping another client with a small issue with their event. Nothing to worry about, plans get adjusted all the time. I'm so pleased you could be here today at Dream Escape Wedding and Events! We focus on creating unique and tailored events for our clients, geared towards giving you the best possible experience…"

Sherlock lost interest, too focused on the tiny man's outfit to care about what he was saying.

_Clothes are tailored, due to his stature. Expensive. Very expensive. Entire suit runs for around twelve hundred pounds. Shoes tip the scales at three hundred. Watch is easily another nine thousand. Expensive tastes. _

_The amount the wedding planner would be charging us to handle our wedding, multiplied by the average number of events they handle in a year, would NOT cover this man's extravagant wardrobe. Independent wealth? Possibly._

Sherlock squeezed John's hand, still ignoring the conversation, and stood. The tiny man stopped speaking, blinking at him in confusion, but Sherlock just walked away from the desk and towards the window, he turned his attention back to John, and continued speaking. He waited for them to get back into their conversation, before eyeing the expensive black leather satchel resting on the small table next to the window, not far from where he was standing.

_Clients' files are locked away, personal information is on those files. Why isn't it kept digitally? I saw files on a few ministry officials, some diplomats, and some minor royals…._

_Interesting. And so easy to take advantage of the situation._

_The man we're meeting is NOT one of the owners, but a senior staff member. I don't see any sign of him carrying keys, or having them out in the open. His suits are tailored well enough I can tell what brand of boxer briefs he's wearing, so no keys. He needs a file, he has to have the cabinets opened. By someone else._

_ I'm not so bored now._

"We keep all our client's information on limited hardcopies, to prevent hacking of sensitive information by unscrupulous characters, we have strict access policies…."

_Got you!_

"…..now I'm aware that your partner has a degree of celebrity, will we be needing to keep the press away? Security would be an extra fee, of course, but we have tons of clients with special circumstances….Does he usually prowl about like that? How…energetic of him. Oh, as I was saying, we would love to…."

He heard bits and pieces of their conversation, fading out when the small man was chattering on about nothing important, which was everything he'd said since opening the door to the office.

_How to get him out of the office?_

Sherlock actually looked out the window, and saw his chance. The news crew at the crime scene must have alerted their parent station, as there was another van parked outside the wedding planner's, cameras pointed at the front of the building. They must have put a tail on them when they got in the cab, or the cabbie called the station, selling out their destination. He made sure to let the cameraman get a clear glimpse of his profile, and he grinned in satisfaction at the flurry of activity.

"John, darling, dearest. The reporters have followed us here! How am I supposed to feel comfortable planning our happiest day together if the media keeps spoiling our plans!?" Sherlock swirled dramatically away from the window, putting an excessively aggrieved expression on his face, running to John's side. John stopped speaking in surprise, but long years of working together had John thinking fast… sort of. He cast the tiny man a quick glance, plastering a fake smile on his face as Sherlock did his best impression of a brainless groom-to-be.

"Oh! Um… Should we leave? Do you want to cancel and escape out the back?" John stood, and Sherlock wrapped his doctor up in a tight embrace, squeezing him hard. "Or not? Do you want them chased off? Call the police?"

"Darling, you brave man! Make them go away! I can't possibly spend my millions of pounds I've made solving internationally renowned crimes while the media hovers like vultures!" Sherlock squeezed John hard again, as he felt the doctor hold back a laugh as Sherlock played his role to the hilt.

The tiny wedding planner stood, and ran to the window, spurred by Sherlock's antics. And the mention of millions of pounds. Sherlock followed, waiting and watching for his next chance. He got it, as the tiny planner began to reach into his jacket.

"I'll just call the police, and have them sent off straight away…." The tiny man said, starting to pull out his mobile, but Sherlock snatched it out of the tiny man's hands while waving his arms wildly.

"Don't call the police, the paparazzi will be here next, if they aren't coming already! I was assured privacy with this company, make them leave, or we shall straightaway!" Sherlock flounced away, pocketing the man's mobile as he did, his behavior taking away from the fact he just stole the phone.

"Oh! Well, yes…." John finally caught on, and moved to the window, taking the tiny little embezzler's elbow in his hand, guiding him towards the office door while talking. "Don't worry darling, Mr. Bradbury and I will chase them away, never fear we'll be back in a few minutes!"

The tiny wedding planner, completely at a loss, was led out of the room, John chatting the whole time about how the paparazzi followed them everywhere, and what kind of security measures did they offer in their wedding packets?

Sherlock grinned as the door shut behind the two men, heading for the front of the building and the street. Sherlock saw another news van pull up, lending to the mayhem. He took his chance, and swooped in on the leather satchel, digging through it one handed as he searched the mobile at the same time.

He found what he was looking for in a small side pocket of the satchel, a black ledger full of account numbers, routing numbers, and abbreviations and initials. The initials started to match some of the names he saw in the files, and the amounts next to the names were substantial, spread out over a serious of weeks or a few short months, depending on the account. All sent to one number, an online banking service, one not used by businesses.

_He's inflating the prices of services and goods, then skimming the difference, and I bet he's cooking the rest of the firm's clients' accounts too. Sneaky little bastard. Not so smart taking me on as a client. Though it looks like he's been doing it for a while._

Sherlock looked up from his ledger and the mobile, and pulled out his own phone, hitting Lestrade's speed dial.

"Lestrade, feel like joining John and I at the wedding planner's office? Yes, on Exeter. I have a little problem with my wedding planner, he won't be able to help with my wedding, as he's going to be in jail. Why? You're going to be arresting him for embezzlement and theft, and probably fraud too."

Sherlock heard the laughter over the line as Lestrade assured him he was on his way, and he was rolling his eyes as John and the tiny wedding planner thief came back in the room. The planner's eyes went straight to the ledger and mobile in Sherlock's hands, and his face went blank in total dismay, halting in the middle of the office.

"John, Scotland Yard is on the way. Excellent idea, using a wedding planner. Though I'd prefer not to use one that steals over a quarter-million pounds from happy couples, bad luck I'm certain."

John shook his head ruefully, and Sherlock sent him a lightning fast wink, unable to keep the glee he was feeling from stealing across his lips, making him grin at his doctor. John blocked the door, and Sherlock groaned in disbelief as the tiny man began to wail hysterically, crying into his ill-gained silken and cotton blend monogrammed handkerchief.

"Do hurry, Lestrade. Yes, I can hear it too. Yes, yes I made a suspect cry. Again."

* * *

><p><strong>Baker Street<strong>

**Jan 15****th**

"No John, I don't want to use a wedding planner. Can't we just go find whoever officiates these sort of things, get the license, and just get married?" Sherlock complained as he climbed the stairs to their flat, John on his heels.

Sherlock whirled off his scarf and coat, tossing them over the desk as he went for his chair, dropping theatrically into the pale green leather seat, the metal frame complaining.

"Sherlock, I want to get married with our friends and family present, not standing in the middle of a judge's chambers. Chapel, reception, and then a honeymoon. The whole nine yards, Sherl'." John told him sternly, pointing a finger at him as he made for the kitchen, banging about as he refilled the kettle with water.

"But…." Sherlock snapped his mouth shut when John glared at him, but he opened it again as another thought struck him. "A honeymoon? Have we not been having sex enough? I'd be more than willing to increase our daily average, my stamina's improved substantially in the last few months."

He heard a strangled sound coming from the kitchen, a combination of laughter and reluctant admiration. "Sherlock, we have any more sex, I'd have to prescribe us a break, as I don't think we'd survive it."

"Oh, don't do that. Can't have my one allowable vice stricken from my diet." Sherlock smiled as John joined him, heading for his own chair. Sherlock uncrossed his legs gracefully, and John paused, distracted by the movement.

"Hhmm?" John hummed, and he slowly sat down, staring at Sherlock intently.

Sherlock reached up, and loosened his collar, moving far slower than he usually would, drawing John's gaze to his fingers. He popped a few more buttons, hand traveling southwards, and John's eyes dropped to the skin revealed as he opened his shirt. John's eyes were dilating, his fingers curling over the arms of his chair, skin flushing.

Sherlock kept going, each button securing John's total focus as he moved down to his waistband. Sherlock stopped at his belt buckle, tapping one long finger on the steel, as if contemplating continuing. John leaned forward, eyes locked on the buckle, and Sherlock let his fingers slip just the tiniest amount behind his waistband, making John suck in a quick breath.

"Don't stop. Whatever you do, don't stop, Sherlock," John begged him, voice raspy with need.

Sherlock said nothing, merely leaned back in his chair as he spread his legs further apart, his right hand opening his belt buckle as his left pulled the ends of his shirt free from his waistband.

John groaned, a soft, eager sound that made Sherlock's heart race. He was getting hot, skin sensitive, and his cock was hardening at an alarming rate behind his zipper. John's attention was locked on Sherlock's hands as he peeled back the front of his trousers, and the black of his boxer briefs teased his doctor.

John nearly fell from his chair, instead making it to his knees, kneeling between Sherlock's spread legs. Sherlock dipped a finger under the tight waistband of his boxers, and John gasped, leaning forward, thoroughly absorbed in watching where his wandering finger was going. Sherlock made brief contact with his erection, and he moved slightly, hips lifting to the quick contact. His eyes drifted shut for a second, and a warm, wet sensation touched his abdomen.

He opened his eyes, to see John kissing openmouthed down his navel, each inch lathed with his wet tongue. Sherlock pulled his hand away, letting John take over as his doctor eased his underwear down, releasing his hard cock. John growled in approval, lips tracing the ridges and veins of his cock, the merest hint of a real kiss, teasing now in return.

Sherlock sighed deeply, arousal easing his mind to peace, body taking over. His whole body tensed, begging for John to take him in his mouth. John sensed his need, and with a quick jerk, pulled Sherlock's trousers and underwear roughly down his hips, to his ankles in one continuous motion. Sherlock kicked his legs free, a split second before John swallowed him whole.

Sherlock groaned in appreciation, John's hot, wet mouth taking his entire length, the head nudging gently at the back of his throat. Sherlock exhaled, enthralled, as John slowly pulled back, eyes closed in concentration, is strong tongue swirling the underside of his cock as he pulled back to the head. He sucked hard, making Sherlock jump.

John chuckled, and his eyes opened as his tongue teased the slit, causing shots of hot electricity to flash through Sherlock's groin. John's eyes, normally a deep clear blue, were black with passion, and challenge. Sherlock grinned as John let him go, withdrawing a bare breath away, licking his lips. Sherlock lifted his hands, and ran his fingers through John's short hair, holding his head securely. John nodded, a small tilt to his head with permission, and he opened his mouth in time for Sherlock to thrust his hips up and forward, feeding John his hard cock.

Sherlock thrust deeply, John's throat muscles working as he bottomed out, before rapidly withdrawing, only to return just as fast. John groaned, sucking hard with each thrust, and Sherlock gave him his all, fucking his sweet mouth over and over.

John gripped his thighs, urging him deeper, closer. Sherlock slid forward on the seat, sitting up, maintaining his bruising rhythm without losing a beat. John hummed with each deep thrust down past his tongue, that clever muscle writhing under his hard cock, spurring him faster. Sherlock's whole focus settled to the man kneeling before him, and the demands he was making with his mouth. John was in control, no matter how hard Sherlock was fucking him with his quick hips and thick cock.

John's fingers gripped with brutal intensity, and Sherlock obeyed, pushing off the chair with his thighs, standing in front of his doctor, John moaning in approval. Sherlock locked eyes with the man at his feet, and gave him everything he had, sparing nothing. John, while perfectly content to make gentle, languorous love for hours, had a deeply woven rough streak in his core, and every now and then, it came out to play… with Sherlock a willing participant.

Sherlock fucked John's mouth, his lips reddened and wet, cheeks hollowing as he sucked harder and harder. Sherlock drove for the back of his lover's throat, the sharp, happy noises John made with each attempt driving him insane. His whole body was sweating from the effort of trying to tame the man below him, muscles straining, nerves exploding with a riot of sensation and pleasure from his cock all the way to the top of his head, and making his toes curl into the rug under his feet.

When he came, it was without warning, every muscle in his body seizing, bowing his back, a sharp, wailing cry slipping free from his mouth as he poured his essence into John, the smaller man taking it all, swallowing fast. His eyes went blind, white lights overwhelming his brain, senses defaulting on him but for touch, John sucking hard, pulling everything he had to offer the love of his life free from his core, sparing nothing.

His breath ragged, Sherlock was undone, and helpless. And every cell in his body was ecstatic.

Sherlock wavered on his feet, weak, brain shut down, at the mercy of the man slowly releasing him. Strong hands ran up his hips, his waist, and the room spun as John maneuvered him. Sherlock found himself kneeling now on the floor, his torso resting on his chair seat, head cradled on the backrest. He heard the rustle of clothing, the faint hints of movement in the air behind him as John removed his clothes. A single finger was trailing down his spine, causing him to shiver, his sweat slicked skin rapidly cooling.

He gasped softly as that single finger continued south, finding his ass, pushing on the tense muscle, demanding entrance. He relaxed easily, his orgasm still riding him, and John slipped that thick digit all the way in, stretching him. Sherlock was limp, languidly enjoying the finger opening him, John moving with intent. He felt a wet, cold liquid run down his crack, and felt a flicker of satisfaction at deciding to plant tiny bottles of lubricant all over the flat. They'd already had sex in here several times in the last few months, with the fireplace a favorite of theirs.

"Sherlock…" John called softly, and he hummed in happy response to the second finger working its way inside of him. "It's my turn, love. Do you want me?"

"Yes….." he whispered, barely audible, no strength to do more than that single syllable. Sherlock was eager, willing compliance, and he wanted John desperately.

Always John. Only John.

He heard a zipper open, and hands holding his hips angled his body. The hard, blunt head of John's cock pushed against him, and with a moment's hesitation, slipped in, his body sucking John in to the hilt. He exhaled, the pressure intense but welcome, filling an aching, empty need. He heard john growl deep in his chest, and then his weight as his doctor rested on his back, firm pectorals covering him, setting fire to every place skin touched skin.

John's weight held him down, and he began to move. Hilt deep, slow withdrawal, pause, then repeat. John knew the rhythm to break Sherlock down to nothing but gasping need, and he used it now. Sherlock was already there, or he thought he had been, but with each repetition of that devastating pattern, John peeled away another layer of the enigmatic detective. Sherlock felt more, needed more, wanted more, with a purity he never felt at any other time…..only with John loving him did he feel this way, and he was addicted to it as surely as any drug.

John fed that addiction, a willing enabler to the passion that wove them together, each little gasp of unthinking delight spilling past Sherlock's lips his reward and inspiration, and he whispered that to Sherlock as he moved over him. Words of love, lust, everything Sherlock would be embarrassed to hear yet wanted to know, John gave him, using his hard length deep inside the detective to make him beg for more.

And so Sherlock begged. Pleaded. Cried, tears pooling under his face on the warming leather. John was relentless, and with a deliberate change in the angle of his thrusts, brought Sherlock screaming to the edge of oblivion again, his swelling cock finding that nub of nerves several times in a row. With one last whisper of love, John pushed Sherlock over the precipice, and he came again, his whole body convulsing with the power of it.

John came as Sherlock's body tightened around him, pulsing with every jet of liquid fire deep inside his detective, moaning and jerking above his lover.

The good doctor collapsed, both men melting together into the welcoming leather of Sherlock's armchair, the metal frame complaining just a little. Sherlock was completely incoherent, aftershocks of pleasure making him jump sporadically under John.

"I love you, Sherlock." John whispered in his ear, and Sherlock managed a glimmer of response, trying to recover. "And we're still having a wedding. No getting out of it."

* * *

><p>Sherlock was waiting on Molly, staring at his mobile, listening to John assemble the new table in the kitchen. Mumbled curses, random banging noises, and pieces of cardboard thrown in frustration interrupted John's murmuring as he read, and read again, the assembly instructions. It had taken them the better part of a month to remember to get a new table after one of Sherlock's experiments burnt the previous one to charred rubble, and John (wisely enough, he had his moments), refused to let Sherlock 'help' him put it together, or even be in the same room while he worked on it. So Sherlock was banished back to the front room, dressed in his bedclothes, where he sat, and waited.<p>

_Match the letters, John. A to A, B to B… though he does have an imaginative range of swear words. Military broadened his horizons there for certain!_

He brought his fingers under his chin, staring at the mobile where it sat on the armrest of his chair, sending his body into a deep trance as he waited for what seemed an eternity. He was aware of John's movement in the flat, and he heard the front door open and close downstairs. The flat's doors were open, and he pulled back to his body in time to see Violet sweep in, shaking off snowflakes from her raven dark hair, longer now in the weeks since she moved in, an inch or so past her shoulders. She wore a long dark grey coat that Sherlock recognized as the woman's version of his Belstaff, and her scarf was a deep purple, suiting her amethyst eyes, making them appear even more vibrant when she smiled. Her smiles were rare, but in the last couple of days she'd been making an effort to appear more energized, her grief still present, but less immediate. Her California tan was long gone, and she was as pale as the rest of her relatives, her features angular with tension. Her beauty was untouched, but something was different. The way she saw the world was different.

She sent him a small smile before entering the kitchen, whispering something to John that had the doctor laughing from his spot on the floor. Sherlock returned his gaze to the mobile, aware that it was exactly four hours since he was at the crime scene, and one hour past Lestrade's promised deadline of having the body to Molly at St Bart's. He sighed, and reached for his mobile, intending to call one of the two, or both, but Violet was standing next to him, and he looked up to see her staring down at him.

"Hey….can we talk?" For her to ask, especially in that tone, was most unusual. She was too much like him to hesitate; if she wanted to know something, she either pried until she knew what she wanted, or hacked her way through to the truth. If she couldn't do either, she found a way. Violet was too much a Holmes not to learn what she wanted, by any means.

Sherlock quirked brow, and silently waved a long fingered hand to John's chair. She threw herself down, slouching back, crossing her black leather knee high boots at the ankles, her hands tapping an offbeat tempo on the armrests. She was dressed somberly, matching the weather, in dark greys and blacks, her scarf the only flash of color.

Sherlock waited, watching. Most people filled silences, voids in conversations, unable to bear the empty spaces between words. Waiting always got you more. So Sherlock waited, patient when he must be, when he needed to be. With Violet, he would wait for as long as she needed, because whatever she wanted to talk about had been haunting her for several days.

"I feel guilty, Sherlock," Violet finally spoke, as forthright as ever. He tilted his head, silent still, waiting. Her hands stilled, and she exhaled, as if relieved to say the words.

"I feel guilty… because Woodley fixated on me. He stalked me across the globe, hired a CIA bounty hunter who almost killed everyone as a side benefit, and every one of us got hurt to some degree….. And….. And Anthea died." Violet leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her split grey skirt wrinkling as she moved, burying her face in her hands, fingers ruffling her hair.

John went quiet in the kitchen, still working on the table, keeping the noise to a minimum, presumably listening. Sherlock didn't think he should speak yet, the way Violet was acting indicating to him that she had more to say. He was the sounding board, and he was only thus because of everyone she loved, she trusted him the most. He withheld his smile at this thought, knowing she needed the colder, more dispassionate man now. Violet didn't want comfort….. She wanted clarity.

"Sherlock, why did Woodley want me? Why me, out of all the women in the world, did he want me? I went looking back through my jobs over the last few years, and the closet we came to any kind of contact was an anonymous job I did for one of his suppliers in covering up a digital sales receipt for illicit goods. It was a two minute job, 5k on completion, I did it with one hand, and never left my apartment in New York City. So….. Why me? Why did Woodley want me?" She asked him at last, chin resting in her hands, eyes flashing through her bangs, hair messy and hanging over her face.

Sherlock sighed, and processed her question. The 'why' of her question was more important than the 'how' at this point, and he wasn't afraid to be blunt.

"I can't tell you how he discovered you. I don't know, and it would take more effort on my part to find out than I'm willing to spare. I can tell you the why of it all."

When he spoke, he kept his voice low, the deep rumble filling the flat, the afternoon light darkening as the sun finally hid behind the building. Violet was in shadow, her eyes the only thing he could see reliably as his adjusted to the lower light level in the flat.

"Okay, explain."

"Woodley was after the means to stabilize Winter's Night. If Carruthers failed to do it for him, he wanted you to hack your way through every pharmaceutical company and lab in the world until you found the means for him. He actually went after Carruthers because he couldn't get you. I think in the process of trying to hire you for that job, and your peculiar….. Requirements… in doing jobs prevented him from getting you to do that, and he became obsessed with you. A violent psychopath wanted you, and as these things tend to escalate, his obsession changed to one of a sexual nature. Your skills were secondary to him in the end, he just wanted to own you."

Violet stared at him, and breathed a long drawn out breath through her teeth, thinking hard.

"Violet, I have been doing this for a very long time. I've seen evil, violence, depravity in every combination, every incarnation imaginable, and the day will come that I will no longer be surprised by the monstrosities humanity is capable of…. Will you believe when I tell you that you did nothing to deserve this, and it's only your own personal actions that you should be accountable for in the end?"

She bit her lip, and struggled visibly. He opened his mouth to try again, wondering what to say next, emotions still not his strong suit, and John chose that moment to speak up from the kitchen, his soft voice floating clearly through the subdued atmosphere of the flat.

"He's fairly close to nailing it, Violet," John said, and he paused, and both Sherlock and Violet found their attention arrested by the thoughtful tone of the doctor, the man himself still unseen on the kitchen floor. "You feel guilty because you're a good person, and good people feel bad when horrible things happen. Be thankful you feel the guilt, as it means you're still decent inside, where it counts. It's the people who don't feel guilty for being alive, who don't feel sadness or grief after personal tragedy that worry me. Since it was Woodley who hurt Anthea, and not you, and he's dead, feeling guilt at this point is only hurting you, since it won't let you feel better as time passes. You loved her, and you always will. Grief will always be with you, but it won't hurt as badly every morning if you wake up determined to live life as best you can. The guilt will fade if you let it, and you can remember the good emotions again one day."

He spied John now, standing, righting the completed table without disturbing the mood that had settled like a warm blanket between the two armchairs. John wasn't even looking their way, keeping the mood casual, as if grief wasn't shadowing them in that moment. Violet was thinking, her eyes far away, focused on something he couldn't discern, and thankfully he felt no need to pry. She sighed, the soft sound filling the quiet flat, sadness clouding her eyes.

John finally looked over, and Sherlock saw the small, faint smile on his doctor's lips. Sherlock realized then that John must have had someone tell him the exact same thing he told Violet, consoling him, helping him past grief. The situation wasn't the same, but apparently grief and guilt did damage no matter the circumstances. Sherlock breathed through his own pain, wondering if John was thinking of those lost two years as he was.

Sherlock's eyes flicked to the mobile, still annoyingly boring, and he returned his gaze to his niece. Violet must have seen his annoyance, because she left her deep thoughts unspoken, and sat back in her seat.

"Saw on the news you two at that murder scene this morning. Rumor has it there's a new madman in town. How bad was it?" Violet queried, no grief evident in her voice.

"Serial killer," Sherlock stated plainly, finally giving in, grabbing his mobile and looking for nonexistent texts from Molly. He had only seen the one body, but all the trademark indicators were there. This was a serial, and he was playing in London now. His killing trail would have started somewhere else.

"Godammit. Fuck. Maybe I need a vacation. Fuck! Just do me a favor, and don't bring your work home, I think one violent assault in this flat a year is enough." Violet grinned at him, only partly sarcastic.

He smirked, thinking he would need to get John more ammunition. Lestrade was his usual source, and now that he was back at the Yard, easy enough to get. Serial killers tended to fixate on one investigator, and odds were in favor of that attention coming to rest on him the longer this case went on. This wasn't his first serial killer, after all. They liked him.

"I'll do my best. No promises."

Violet made to stand, but sat back after stopping mid-motion. She pushed her hair back from her face, and stared hard at Sherlock, her eyes burning now with something he saw every morning in his own. The same insatiable urge to _know._

"Sherlock….." Violet started, and paused, hesitation on her face. She made up her mind, and barreled ahead, as was her wont. "Speaking of serial killers…"

She trailed off, impaling him with her jewel-tone eyes, and he saw instantly where this was going. Where her logical, code-creating, effervescent and never-ending thought process just landed.

_Damn._

Sherlock palmed his mobile, and made to stand, but her hand whipped out, and gripped his wrist, hard. She held him to his chair, and while he could have broken free, it would require more effort than he wanted to employ against his niece. She was strong, and held him in place with her one arm and his own refusal to hurt her, fingers squeezing around his wrist, conveying her desire, her need to know.

About her father, and tragically enough, his first-hand education about serial killers. Hard not to learn anything when you were raised with one.

John must have made the same leap Sherlock had, as the doctor stopped puttering around, and came into the front from, staring at Sherlock. He grimaced, and dropped his mobile, where it bounced off the armrest and fell to the floor, the rug dampening its potentially disastrous plummet. He leaned back, and Violet let him go, white marks from her fingers on his wrist. He cocked a brow at the marks, but said nothing, as she hadn't hurt him and it was tame compared to what most people did to him in wanting information he was withholding.

"Speaking of serial killers, Violet?" Sherlock was annoyed now, but willing to give her something, anything to avoid a full out confessional about his older brother.

"Tell me about my father," she demanded, leaning forward, her previous sadness replaced by a fiery intensity that was all too familiar. "I haven't found anything, anything at all. And when I can't find something, it doesn't exist. It's like he was erased from existence."

Sherlock smiled, a faint twist to his lips, and stared at the dead hearth, avoiding the stares of his lover and niece. No getting out of it now. It was difficult to talk about, regardless of his confession to Violet months ago when he revealed her identity. The pain and drugs helped then, but he had neither now.

"I…. damnation." He bit off the curse, and shifted in his armchair, wishing himself anywhere but there. "He has been erased."

"How the fuck? Okay, I know how I would erase someone, but I've got Clean Slate, and I know for a fact I'm the only creator of a program that can thoroughly erase a person from existence, so how the hell did my father get erased so thoroughly that I can't even find traces of him?"

Sherlock rubbed a hand over his face, and leaned back in his chair, so blasted uncomfortable that he was willing to do anything to get out of the flat and back to hunting killers he wasn't related to. He was glad Sherrinford was dead and gone, but his daughter wasn't, and she was as stubborn as every other Holmes family member.

"Sherl'?" John walked to his side, and put a warm hand on his shoulder. Sherlock stared up at his lover, at the sympathy and love in his dark blue eyes. "You okay talking about it?"

Sherlock heard Violet sigh in exasperation, but he ignored her, and John gave him a small smile, a smile that clearly said Sherlock didn't have say anything he didn't want to. Sherlock lifted his head, and saw Violet's face, and knew he would have to say something, she wasn't taking 'I don't want to talk about my insane and violent older brother because it bothers me even eighteen years later' excuse.

"We erased him," Sherlock growled out, and Violet's face went blank from surprise. John's hand tightened on his shoulder, and he spared his white faced lover a glance before turning back to his niece. "We all erased him. Mycroft, myself, my parents. And… Sherrin himself."

"What the fuck do you mean he erased himself?" Violet asked breathlessly. "How does anyone even do that, especially two decades ago?"

Sherlock gave up. He exhaled roughly, took John's hand in his, and glared at Violet as he peeled off the top layer of the inner scar of his heart labeled 'Sherrin-Deceased.'

It all came rushing back, a torrent of frustration, fear, and terrible pain. With the twist of betrayal that only came from family. He spit out his words as if he were fighting them, a part of him refusing to believe that speaking of their familial past would do any good, for anyone.

"Sherrin wasn't the most gregarious person, and aside from forced contact with other people as a child in school and university, he kept to himself. Sure, people knew him in person, by sight. Family, schoolmates, our parents' colleagues, neighbors. He was the most charming, slick, manipulative bastard I have ever seen in action, yet he hated people, and went out of his way to limit contact with anyone he didn't need to speak to. Not to mention he was violent and mad as a hatter, and keeping him from other people was easy, and imperative."

Sherlock was restless, the words pouring out now, his feet moving against the rug under his chair, and he couldn't sit any longer. He shot up, and began pacing, John moving to slide into his now vacant chair. Sherlock ran hand through his curls, and paced back and forth in front of the two chairs.

"He was talented, smart, and eclipsed Mycroft in raw intelligence. He was adept in mathematics, and a fair hand with athletics as well. And to make the rest of us feel inadequate, he was artistically inclined, putting our musical endeavors to shame. In between forced bouts of treatments at mental facilities, he was excelling quietly in everything he put his hand to. Yet anytime he made the student rolls or a newspaper for something, his name would be removed at his insistence, or something wouldn't get printed, or people would be suddenly afraid to speak about him, mention him, or even look at my brother."

"It happened for years, ever since he was a child, well before I was born actually. I get most of this second hand, as the beginning of his reign of terror happened shortly before even Mycroft was born," Sherlock paused, and stared at the door, seeing another door in another house in his mind, the rain pouring down as a fifteen year old Sherlock practiced his fencing form inside his parent's sitting room. He recalled the rush of rain falling on the large front windows, and the creak of the door as it was thrown open, and the tall, rain-bedraggled form of his brother Mycroft as he stood shell-shocked in the front door of their home, fresh from killing Sherrin the night before.

Sherlock sighed loudly, and returned his thoughts to his niece, remembering her original question. Or questions, really.

"Violet, I would tell you more. I would. But I… I can't. Partly because I literally can't. I rarely interacted with Sherrinford directly growing up, because by the time I was born, my parents knew he was dangerous, if not yet to what degree, and made sure I was NEVER alone with him. They knew instinctively that it would have been risky, even if they hadn't yet the courage to speak out loud about why that was."

"After Mycroft…. After Sherrin was gone, we all did our best to destroy what was left of him. By the time we got around to erasing the last vestiges of him, there wasn't much to get rid of, really. He'd erased himself pretty thoroughly by the time I was fifteen. He was nearly thirty when Mycroft killed him."

Sherlock stood for a moment, refusing to see the expressions on Violet and John's faces. He was pulled away again, and the look of horror on Violet's face and the one of sympathy and love on John's was too hard to see, let alone handle.

"Sherrinford knew what he was about. He was a killer, from his youngest years. To prevent himself from being caught, and remembered by potential witnesses, and to keep from being hunted down by the authorities, he erased himself every single opportunity he could. He limited exposure, confined himself to his studio, and went hunting when the mood struck him. Sherrin was an adult by the time that particular habit of his formed, and he never left any viable proof behind. He disappeared for long stretches of time, and when he would, we feared equally that he was either dead, or out killing somewhere far from home." Sherlock paced again, but came back after one turn, staring at Violet.

"Turns out we were right. He would go on long killing sprees far from where he considered his home territory, so as not to bloody the waters around where he lived. We all knew this… and could do nothing." Sherlock felt ill now, and stared at his hands, seeing them red with blood, dripping in imagined rivulets to the floor, the scent of the hot fluids reaching his nose, tickling his senses.

"Do nothing? You all knew he was killing, how could you do nothing?" Violet demanded, and she sounded accusatory, angry even.

"Save your anger for your other uncle, and my parents, Violet. I knew he was a killer for years, for _years…._" Sherlock gasped out, anger of his own welling up, from a long ago deserted place in his heart, full of bitterness and shame. "I knew since I was a boy barely out of the nursery, yet no one, not one single person believed me. My own family refused to believe Sherrin was anything more than a troubled boy, who needed love and guidance and some corrective restrictions. They all let his charm and intelligence, his marvelous talents blind them to the darkness that grew out of the nothingness of his heart. No one believed me when I said he was killing our neighbors' daughters! _I knew from my earliest days that Sherrinford was a monster, and no one believed me!_ _No one believed me until it was too late, with the body count past numbering!"_

He was shouting now, overcome by the sheer debilitating frustration he felt, the helplessness he experienced as a child at knowing his own blood was dangerous past all measure, and no one believed him. Not until it was too late, and all that was left was trying to hold together the pieces of their lives. Sherlock put both hands to his head, trying to block out the memories, and he shook head to toe, body revolting against his control, every instinct telling him to run, hide, to keep Sherrin away.

John got up, and moved to him, but Sherlock broke away, fearing compassion would break him. He took off down the hall, running for his room. He slammed shut the door, and crawled into bed, burrowing under John's pillow and trying his best to keep the memories at bay.

His failure to convince his family and the authorities the truth about Sherrin was a deep and abiding injury to his psyche, even eighteen years after his brother's death. The original wound was far older, received in his earliest days. His deductive skills came upon him early, and it was forever frustrating that he was so young when he used them on his own brother- frustrating that because of his age, he was ignored or coddled, his words the whining of a jealous child. Even when he received vindication in his theories about Sherrin when Mycroft caught him in the act and later killed their elder brother, Sherlock still had no peace. If only he had been better, more persuasive, Sherrin would have been stopped long before he took all those lives. The true total of people Sherrin murdered was unknown, and the ones they did know about? That total was sickening. It was a body count he couldn't stand to think about.

* * *

><p>John heard the mobile chime from the front room, the little snippet of sound indicative of Sherlock's alert for Molly's text messages. John stood outside the door to their room, and he could hear Sherlock's ragged breathing through the open bathroom doors. He reached out, and closed the bathroom door to the hall, catching a glimpse of Sherlock huddled on their bed through the connecting door, his head covered by what looked like John's pillow. His heart clenched in sympathy, and John let the door close, knowing a shocked Violet was still out front.<p>

_This case is going to be hard for him to solve if he keeps getting reminded of his brother. It's very clear to me he can't handle talking about Sherrinford in any kind of detail. I'll need to watch him, even more than usual. _

_Sherlock, I'm sorry. You won't like hearing me say that out loud, but I have to say it. I'm so sorry you suffered like that as a kid. I love you._

He walked back down the hall, to see Violet picking up her uncle's mobile, staring at the screen until it went dark again. She heard him coming, and wordlessly handed him the mobile, her brilliant eyes clouded, her face a mask of anger, and pain, and some regret.

"He's a wreck, Violet. He won't be up to talking for a while," John said softly, turning Sherlock's mobile over in his hands, feeling the familiar lines and edges. He spent as much time on this mobile as his own, as Sherlock hated going through his own email, preferring John to find him the sixes and sevens, the rare eights. It was usually Lestrade that brought them the nines and tens. It was only when Sherlock was looking for an escape from monotony, or boring conversations, or when John was at work that Sherlock checked his own emails for new cases.

"I…. crap. Did I do anything I should apologize for? I didn't mean to send him screaming from the room, I swear," Violet asked him, carding her slim fingers through her hair exactly as Sherlock did to his own, and John's heart flipped a bit at the sight. "I forget sometimes…. I forget that he's not much older than me, that he was kid through all of that shit with my dad."

"No, Violet. Don't apologize. You have the right to know. But…" John took a deep breath, and stared hard at the young woman in front of him. She hadn't meant to disturb Sherlock to such a degree, but John didn't want Sherlock unbalanced, not if he was going to be working a serial killer case, and having to deal with memories of his own sibling at the same time. "But I think you need to go to Mycroft with any more questions about your father. Him, or your grandparents. Sherlock_ was_ just a kid, and it's very obvious he suffered deeply dealing with it. Please don't ask him anymore about his brother, not during this case."

"I…. well, shit. I get your point. Mycroft would be the guy to ask, wouldn't he? I don't think I want to stress the grandparents out, they only just started to talk to me, and well, they're old. But Mycroft I can harass easily. Been doing that for years." Violet reached for her messenger bag, where she kept her laptop and other assorted toys for her illegal and profitable profession. She carried several thousand pounds worth of equipment around with her everywhere she went, and John would worry if she wasn't also packing two stun guns, a large canister of mace, and zero inhibitions in using whatever means necessary to keep herself safe.

Well, he worried anyways. She was family now. And vulnerable, as all the Holmes were, beneath their armor and prickly exteriors.

She hugged John, and he hugged her back, his heart full of love for this young woman who reminded him so much of Sherlock. She was worth loving all on her own merits, but it was the resemblance, both physical and behaviorally to Sherlock that first snuck Violet Hunter into John's heart. She was amazing, and while she might struggle from time to time with 'damn rules' and 'fucking laws', he loved her dearly. She was as much his niece now as she was Sherlock's.

Violet kissed his cheek, and gave him a wry smile as she stepped to the door, pausing for a moment to look down the hall to the bedroom.

"If you think he needs to hear it, tell him I love him," Violet said softly, not turning around. She walked out the door, and left the flat, her boots snapping on the wooden steps as she went.

John listened to her leave, and waited until he heard the sound of a cab pulling up the curb and then away before he closed the flat doors, locking them. He opened the message from Molly, and saw she was ready for them at their convenience. John winced, and thought hard about whether or not he could manage to keep Sherlock away from this case. Whether he should. John knew the odds of keeping Sherlock from working a case were astronomical, and he gave up the inclination. Sherlock was the best man on this case, regardless of his history.

This new serial killer wasn't the first Sherlock had managed to catch in the last decade, and John knew, as depressing as it sounded, that once Sherlock caught this one… another would come along. They always did.

John went down the hall, and entered their room quietly, warily watching the man hiding under his pillow on the bed. Sherlock was awake, and pretending he wasn't. John put the mobile down on the nightstand, and sat on the bed, rubbing Sherlock's shoulder and back, not saying anything.

Sherlock was trembling, tense all over, and clutching John's pillow like a lifeline. John moved his legs up and around, and snuggled against Sherlock's back, spooning him, one arm working under his head, and the other draped over his chest. John held Sherlock tightly, no space between them, plastering as much of his body to the taller man as he could. John just held him, and breathed evenly.

Eventually Sherlock's trembling eased, and their breathing patterns meshed. The lanky form of his lover relaxed, melting back into John's embrace. John hugged him, pressing his face to Sherlock's shoulder, breathing in his scent. Sherlock always smelled amazing. If it was possible to bottle a personality that was made up of intelligence, excessive snark, lack of control, ice cold exterior yet tender and sweet… with a dash of crazy…. Okay, a serious serving of crazy…..that is what he smelled like. Sherlock. His Sherlock.

John inhaled happily, his hand holding Sherlock close rubbing small circles over his detective's front. Sherlock hummed, and John felt the vibrations under his face, where it was still pressed tightly to his detective's shoulder.

Sherlock stirred when the circles widened, and John's hand wandered south. He tilted his hips for John's hand to graze over his groin, and John chuckled softly at the cock-tease in his arms. He gave Sherlock a light squeeze through his clothing, making Sherlock gasp before wiggling his ass back into John's groin. John's chuckle turned to a laugh, and he pressed a kiss to the shoulder under his face.

"Feeling better, Sherl'?" John murmured, and Sherlock caught John's wandering hand, holding it in his, pressing their hands to his chest over his heart.

"I am. Did I hear my mobile chime earlier?" Sherlock asked, his voice level, no stray emotion leaking through. Sherlock was fine.

"Yeah, Molly. She's waiting on us. Still up for this case?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock queried, soundly legitimately confused as to why John asked. All John did was smile ruefully against the firm muscles of Sherlock's shoulder.

"No reason. Get dressed, love. Want to take my car?" John said as he sat up, reluctantly pulling away from the warmth of the long body he was snuggling. It was tempting to stay where they were, and let the authorities handle this latest threat. John got up anyway, tugging Sherlock off the bed with him, smoothing his riotous curls as Sherlock stared down at him, inches away.

"Mmmmm….. Tour about London in a death trap with an adrenaline junkie driving, then to a morgue to examine a serial killer's victim?" Sherlock asked rhetorically, making John grin. "Sure, let's take the car."

* * *

><p><strong>Jan. 15<strong>**th**

**London**

He watched the news, the remote clasped in his elegant hand. He leaned back in the leather and velvet chair, enjoying the solitude of his private study as he watched the Great Detective get in a cab on the large flat screen. The news caught wind of the gruesome murder earlier that morning, arriving on scene just in time to film the famous Sherlock Holmes getting into a cab with his fiancé.

He paused the image, and put down the remote. He brought his hands up under his chin, fingertips together, and contemplated the younger man frozen in digital perfection.

He smiled, the tiniest of movements to his chiseled features, barely disturbing the aristocratic outline of his profile. Anyone watching him now would see a refined, upper class gentleman dressed with impeccable care and precision. His dark suit was pressed and immaculate, his black tie pure silk and done in a Windsor knot, a severe line against the white of his shirt.

He stood slowly, with a predatory grace he gave up hiding decades ago. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror above the mantel, and stared back at the man he saw there. He was tall, his body lean and efficiently muscled, even for a man in his late forties.

Years away from home did little to impact his appearance, the violence that he relished leaving not a trace upon him. His skin was pale, alabaster smooth, and the only indication of his age was the stark white hair at both temples, a deep contrast to his raven black hair. His hair was as thick and full as a man half his age, a black so dark it had blue highlights in the weak light from the windows. It was wavy instead of curly, a fact he knew was a pure stroke of luck, considering how his younger brother turned out.

He smiled, his vanity appeased by the view, his winsome grin transforming him from a cold, impassive inhuman creature to a charming member of the peerage, his vibrant amethyst eyes sparkling with intelligence.

_Home at last. Time to claim that which is mine. Time to step free of the shadows, and let the world bleed at my feet. _

_I am home, my brothers._

His laughter broke free, filling the grand house he dwelled in, reverberating off the high ceilings. His laughter drew his companion to the study, and he watched as the large oak door opened behind him in the mirror. He let his laughter die out, and he observed the younger man who slowly walked across the room to him, not turning around to greet him. He kept his smile, enjoying the view.

His companion was nearly two decades younger than he, a devious man in his prime, gifted with an intelligence to rival his own, and a ruthless, maniacal personality that he enjoyed, and encouraged, on a daily basis. Shorter than he by a head, the younger man was a lithe, wiry example of manhood, with pale skin, and dark, devious eyes that conveyed the insanity he carried inside. His grin was lightning quick, and appeared often, as changeable as his moods, and the tone of voice he used. He was a mercurial man; a dangerous, powerful man. The younger man moved with a confidence that captured his attention, and stirred his blood.

"And what is so amusing, Sherrin? Did you find someone more enjoyable than me to have fun with?" His companion asked, grin flashing on his handsome face. Sherrinford Holmes finally turned to face the younger man now standing at his side, and lifted a long fingered hand to caress the smile curving his luscious lips.

"Are you jealous, dear James? Of the thought I may replace you?" Sherrin asked softly, his hand curling behind the shorter man's head, burrowing into his soft brown hair, drawing him nearer.

"Don't be absurd, I know there's no one more enjoyable than me," Jim chuckled as Sherrin pulled his head back by the grip he had in his hair, eyes drifting shut. His pink tongue drifted out over his lower lip, drawing Sherrin's gaze.

Sherrin pulled him closer, and leaned down, brushing his lips over Jim's lightly, in so faint a kiss it hardly counted. The smaller man shuddered in his grip, pulse leaping in his throat, breathing speeding up. He didn't move though, the instinctive reaction of a smaller animal caught in the claws of a predator, and Sherrin nibbled along his chin, down his neck. He breathed in Jim's scent, and lathed his tongue over the rapidly beating pulse in his neck, before sucking on it, hard. Jim jumped, but stayed where he was, docile in the grip of the eldest Holmes brother.

Sherrinford claimed James Moriarty, leaving a love mark just above the collar of his Westwood for anyone to see. He pulled back, the vivid red bruise small but noticeable. He let Jim go, and stepped back, returning to the chair and the remote. He rewound the video, and played the scene with his youngest brother again.

"You marked me, Sherrin," Jim grumbled, standing on his toes to see the red hickey in the mirror above the mantel, head angled to the side to get a better view. He sent a glare to Sherrin in the mirror, before dropping back off his toes and joining him at the television.

Sherrin ignored Jim's complaint, his attention locked on the youngest Holmes brother.

"Are you prepared, James?" Sherrin asked softly, eyes glittering intently as he watched his little brother on repeat.

"I've been ready for two years now, Sherrin. Jaime's activation of Reaper merely moves my timeline up. I make my first move soon," Jim assured him, and the smaller man took the remote from his hand, pausing it again on Sherlock. "He won't survive what is coming."

"None of them will."

James Moriarty grinned, a feral motion that made Sherrinford Holmes chuckle in appreciation.

They both watched with an obsessive fascination as Sherlock walked to the cab, again and again.


	60. Make It Bleed

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but he owns every part of me.**

**A/N: Apologies for the lateness of posting. Expect new chapters every two weeks from now on. Thank you all for following along and reading, I sincerely appreciate it all. **

**WARNING: This chapter contains rough play BDSM. It's consensual, but very primal. Please, PLEASE do not participate in BDSM unless you know what you're doing, and have established safewords and soft limits. BDSM can be wonderful, but must be undertaken sanely.**

**With that buzzkill in play, please enjoy the chapter!**

**And special thanks to Silvereyedbitch, my rock and editor. She has yet to see the 'special' scene in this chapter, as I managed to kept it from her until now. It's short, but exactly what you've been begging me for. Enjoy! **

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 60<strong>

"_**Make it Bleed"**_

**Somewhere near the North Sea…..**

**18 Years Ago….**

"Jimmy, watch it!" Jaime snapped out her small hand, her fingers gripping her brother's elbow as he stumbled in the dark, hanging above the abyss that roared below them. The cliff was so high that Jaime could barely see the ocean below, let alone the trail, which made their trek down the cliff side all the more harrowing.

Jimmy backpedaled, his sister pulling him back from the ledge. She was fast, his little sister, and getting faster and stronger every day. She was nearly three years younger than him, and even at his exalted age of almost-fourteen he was no match for her. Jaime was going to be a force of nature one day, when she grew up. Jimmy stared down at the ocean, the white crests catching sporadically in the weak moonlight that hung high overhead. Jimmy patted Jaime's head in silent thanks, her red brown curls flying in the wind, her dark eyes full of something…. Not fear. She didn't fear anymore. He hadn't seen fear in her since _that night. _

A bitter wind kicked up the sea mist, making Jimmy blink as it stung his eyes. They were on the tourist trail that ran over the cliffs not too far from the tiny nameless hamlet that clung to the sea, struggling to survive forgotten by man and kingdom. It was why they were here, hiding from the authorities intent on finding the 'lost' children of Lord Blackwood. Jimmy knew their interest in finding them was more salacious than Samaritan; the majority of people tracking the wayward stepchildren of Blackwood were reporters, and only a few actual policemen. Rumors of Blackwood's violent tendencies and his unhealthy leanings for the 'company' of children had somehow made it out into the ether of the moronic public, and Jimmy resisted the urge to go back to the estate and strangle whichever servant it was who blabbed.

He'd set it up so that it looked like at first that a long lost relative had found them and gotten custody; then he arranged it so it looked like the government made them wards and took them to a home; then he made it so they had been kidnapped by incompetent criminals and whisked away to places unknown on the Continent. The best mislaid trail yet was that they were dead, killed in an accident as they ran away from home, inconsolable with grief, their fragile young bodies swept away by the currents where the Thames entered the ocean. Each theory Jimmy fostered as they snuck away from Blackwood Manor in the days after their stepfather's 'suicide', thus keeping the truth, and the interference of idiotic adults, away from the Moriarty siblings.

Jimmy took Jaime's hand in his, shouldering both their packs, and he slowly resumed their cautious journey down the cliff side, trusting in his earlier reconnaissance during daylight hours to getting them down safely. There was a hidden cove at the bottom of the treacherous path, where locals, in days long past, used to smuggle heavily tariffed and taxed items into the region. Now the cove was long since forgotten, except by those who used it for another purpose.

Getting out of the UK.

There were plenty of people, who for reasons of their own, wished to escape the United Kingdom unseen, and without records. Most foolishly took the southern route, over the Channel into France, via private or chartered boats. Or they stupidly used commercial transport, either flying or taking the boating equivalent of public transport. The heavy traffic of people between England and France over the Channel made it likely that anyone, no matter how careful, would be seen by someone. And remembered. And that is exactly what Jimmy didn't want.

They needed to disappear. To cease to exist. Jim and Jaime Moriarty needed to fade away, and be forgotten.

Forgotten until Jim was ready to come home.

* * *

><p><strong>St Bart's<strong>

**Morgue**

**Jan 15th**

"No need to feel awkward about this. I can handle seeing him," Molly whispered to herself, pacing back and forth beside the occupied exam table, eyes trained on the steel doors to the morgue. "Not like I haven't seen him a thousand times or more…."

He was going to be here any minute now, John's text telling Molly they were on their way.

Sherlock was coming. And other than at Anthea's funeral weeks earlier, Molly hadn't seen Sherlock in person since the night her ex-fiancée tried to kill him the month before. A funeral wasn't a place to talk, and they hadn't. He'd just nodded once in her direction and that was it. And before that….. There was the kiss. An epic, heart-stopping soul wrenching kiss that left Molly aching for more and desperately wishing she'd never given in in the first place.

She stopped pacing, watching the doors with both dread and hope, but no one walked through. She grumbled at herself in annoyance, and spun back to the table, the red stained white sheet covering the victim fluttering in the small breeze from the central air. It was colder than the Arctic outside, but not cold enough to keep bodies from decaying, so it was always colder in here than anywhere else in the hospital.

She nibbled on her lip, twisting her fingers together with a jittery case of nerves. Molly was used to being nervous around Sherlock, but she didn't know how she was going to react. How HE was going to react. Never mind her crush's fiancé!

Molly stared at the sheet covered corpse, not really seeing it. She was so caught up in her wayward thoughts she didn't hear the doors swing open or shut behind her, nor the very subtle tread of the tall man creeping up to stand quietly at her shoulder.

Sherlock leaned down, and whispered in her ear, "I'm certain this would move along faster if she were naked, don't you?"

Molly shrieked, hand to her throat, and she spun to face the grinning detective. He raised a lone brow at her, and she struggled to ease her racing heart. "Sherlock! You wretch!" Molly couldn't believe it when she saw her own hand swing out, and gently slap his shoulder in reprimand.

His deep chuckle filled the cave-like morgue, and he straightened from his lean, hands clasped behind his back. He meandered around the examination table, head tilted, staring at the covered body.

"You haven't started?" he asked, his bass timbre smooth as dark chocolate and just as sinful. Molly swallowed, and forced herself to pay attention to the words, and not just his voice.

"No….No. I know how you are about serial killers. I just got her situated. Waited for you."

"Excellent, Dr. Hooper." Sherlock rocked back on his heels, and his eyes lifted from the corpse to a spot over her shoulder. Molly heard the doors swing open again, and she turned to see John enter the morgue.

John gave her a great big smile, a gloved hand waving in greeting as he walked past her to the desk, where he sat in her chair. His face was flushed, cheeks rosy, and he couldn't stop grinning. Usually John was more somber in the morgue, or at least more annoyed to be sitting in the cold room for hours on end. He was dressed for it, and she could smell the cold winter air on him when he passed her.

"Hello, John. How's things?" Molly tried for normal, and was relieved when John let her.

"Wonderful, Molly. We took the car today, roads were clear enough. Had to find a spot to park her at. Marvelous machine, that Audi." John kicked his feet up on the clear corner of her desk, and leaned back in the chair, balancing on the rear legs. He gave her a contented smile, and sent his attention to the detective.

Sherlock was staring down at the corpse, hands still clasped behind his back. Molly wondered what he was doing, then she remembered. She hurriedly snapped on a pair of blue exam gloves, and carefully pulled back the cotton sheet from the body. She revealed the head first, and lifted the sheet away until the corpse was fully uncovered. Molly tossed the sheet in the biohazard bin, and went to stand at the head of the table, and waited.

The body was in ruin. Molly felt a part of her shudder in fear, the knowledge that one human willingly did this to another disturbing her at a very basic and primal level. Whoever did this had done it before. Molly had done hundreds of postmortems, and she knew the hand of experience when she saw it, same as Sherlock.

The person Sherlock was after now was most definitively a serial killer.

Sherlock paced slowly and methodically around the table, one measured step at a time. He would move, pause, evaluate, and then move again. He repeated this until he'd seen the entire front of the body, from every angle. When Sherlock came to the morgue on cases, it was always the same, the only difference was in the speed of his methods. His circuit, depending on the body, would either be lightning fast, with him spouting out COD, motive and killer in minutes, or he would take forever, waiting on old age and boredom to prompt him to figure it all out. This time, he wasn't at his fastest, but he certainly wasn't at his slowest. This time he took only a handful of minutes, and Molly spent them all watching him work.

John shifted in the chair, and she sent him a quick glance. John was watching Sherlock too, but he saw her look, and gave her a tiny smile before returning his attention to his lover.

"Molly." She jumped as he spoke her name, standing opposite of her across the table, the body between them.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Give me your thoughts, please."

"So soon? You haven't even seen more than the body, let alone any evidence I have yet to examine her for."

"You won't find any." Sherlock said it so surely, with so much certainty, that Molly stared down at the body, wondering what he saw that told him that.

"It's what I don't see, Molly." There he was, reading minds again. He did that a lot.

"Okay I'm confused, how can there be no evidence on her? Look at her! She's covered in filth and blood." Molly waved her hands over the body, not bothering to point out the various blood stains and grime on the body, all of it evidence to her.

"All you'll find on her body, Molly, is evidence she was killed on the roof. So- water and air pollutants, roofing materials, rust, exhaust residue, bird feces and other animal traces, et cetera. Evidence of being killed on a roof." Sherlock stood tall and straight, hands not once released from behind his back, clad still in his dark coat, collar pulled high. "You won't find any evidence of where she was _before_ the roof though."

"What? How do you know?" John asked that, still seated at the desk. Molly had almost forgotten he was there.

"He took everything that could identify himself through trace evidence with him, and her body was cleaned before she was forced to that rooftop. Look along her hairline, under her chin, underarms, inner thighs, between her toes. She's clean, freshly washed, where she hasn't been exposed overmuch to the elements or her own blood."

Molly peered down at the dead woman's head, and her eyes went wide as she saw what Sherlock was talking about. The victim was indeed very clean on the parts of the body that were hidden from direct contact with the night air and the rooftop.

"Tell me what you think, Molly. I already know what I think, but I'll take an outside opinion now." Sherlock was watching her, eyes trained on her face, face impassive yet strangely encouraging.

Molly sucked in a deep breath, held it, and let her thoughts out. She tried not to form opinions before she did an autopsy, but that didn't stop her from thinking about things she saw. And waiting on Sherlock had given her plenty of time.

"Cleaning the body, or in this case the living victim, speaks of awareness of forensic training, knowledge of police procedures. He knew she was going to be found, and that he had no intention of being caught, which is why he cleaned the body. Cool, analytical." Molly stepped back from the table, tilting her head to one side, peering intently at the cuts and slashes. "No hesitation marks, as I'm sure you've seen, Sherlock. He knew exactly where he was putting the knife, and how hard to push to go as deeply as he wanted. He's done this before."

"Spot on so far, keep going."

"These aren't really random. See how some cutes overlap, but others curve so as the avoid crossing over each other? Why would he do that? And since there are no hesitation marks, I would guess that these slash marks are actually a pattern, probably only one he can see."

"Brilliant, Molly." Sherlock tossed the compliment easily, as if it was nothing to him. She warmed to it anyway, and she saw John smile out of the corner of her eye. She fidgeted, and then stared at the body one more time. "I'll still need to take trace from her body, and then the autopsy."

"Cause of death is obvious, really. Single laceration to her throat, severing all arteries and veins, and it traversed the neck to the…" Sherlock peered down at the victim's neck, tilting his head and getting so close he was could touch the ruined flesh with his nose, "the C4 vertebra, in fact nicking the bone on the release stroke."

Sherlock pulled out his evidence kit from his coat, without getting back up, eyes narrowed at the furrow of red seeping flesh. He brought up his tiny magnifying glass, and held it over the victim. "Yes, there. See? There's a definitive marking on the bone from the blade he used. I'll need that vertebra as soon as possible, Molly."

"Sherlock, I have to do this autopsy with the proper protocols, you know that. I just can't give you a piece of the body straight off."

"That vertebra, any drugs you find in her system, and I'll need photos of the knife designs he drew on her body. While you're doing that, I'll be researching other avenues of inquiry." Sherlock put his kit away, all without taking his eyes off the body. He was staring, again. Never lifting his gaze from the slashes and artfully arranged cuts that decorated the dead woman, Sherlock stilled.

"What?" Molly queried, recognizing his epiphany face.

"There's no marks on her back, is there?"

"I didn't see any when I was laying her out on the table, no."

"Interesting." Sherlock said, softly, face pale as cold granite. His eyes, that impossible heavenly shade of blue, green and gold, glowed from the charismatic depths of his face. "Why didn't he use the entire canvas?"

"Human being, Sherlock, not a canvas." That was John, speaking evenly from the desk where he still sat. He said it as a gentle reminder, one Molly had seen him make many times over the years, reminding Sherlock to act human himself time to time.

"Of course." Sherlock wasn't really paying attention, still staring. He settled into an odd quiet, the room's background noise fading away as if respecting the genius in the morgue. Molly smiled at the flight of fancy, yet she couldn't argue with the stray thought. Sherlock was a genius.

"Right! Off to Scotland Yard." Sherlock startled Molly and John, after a minute of total stillness on the detective's part. He clapped his hands together, and gave Molly the barest of nods before he spun around the table, and walked towards the doors. He snagged John's hand as he passed the seated doctor, and pulled John to his feet without stopping. John tossed Molly a small wave, and she watched as the two men disappeared from view, the steel doors swinging in their wake.

"Well, at least that wasn't awkward," Molly told the dead woman, as she grabbed the overhead spotlight and turned it on, illuminating the corpse in its crimson splattered finery. The red lines of cut flesh seemed to writhe in the washed out skin, and Molly blinked. For a second there she thought she saw something in the red lines, something familiar. She squinted and looked again, but whatever she thought she saw it wasn't there now.

She picked up her camera, and got to work. Working with Sherlock Holmes may not be a smart thing to do when she was trying get over being in love with him, but that didn't stop people from dying horribly and ending up on her table.

And it didn't keep the man from being so damned sexy, either.

* * *

><p><strong>January 15<strong>**th**

**Marylebone, City of Westminster**

**9:00 PM**

Cabs laid out on their horns, pedestrians milled about in droves and businesses were doing a steady beat of gratifying capitalism, countless shoppers and diners entering and exiting swinging glass doors of restaurants and shop fronts. Marylebone was a tourist's dream of inner city London, and as such it was a perfect place to immerse one's self in the culture and heartbeat of the city and her people. Everyone was trying to see and experience everything, and as a result, no one saw anything.

It was the perfect place to hunt. According to Sherrinford Holmes at least, the most successful serial killer this side of the pond.

"So, Sherrin, any reason we're enjoying a damp and cold night out with the marginally washed masses when we could be back at the mansion, doing reprehensible things to each other and planning the ruination of the UK?" James asked peevishly, a faint pout curling his fine lips, a dark grey ball cap pulled low over his eyes. It was late at night, but Marylebone Road was well lit, and it was bright enough that people could conceivably recognize the master criminal consultant.

Sherrin paced along easily, his raven dark hair brushed back in high waves from his face, eyes flashing in the golden lights spilling onto the sidewalks from the collected storefronts. His coat was long and solid black, his jacket and tie a black so dark they shone like India ink against the pristine white of his silk shirt. The warm golden glow cast out onto the sidewalk gilded his profile as they walked slowly through the crowd, Sherrin's midnight hair mirroring the light and his eyes flashing as he let his gaze run lightly over the unworthy that moved instinctively from his path. He drew appreciative looks from many women, and some few of the men they passed. The crowds seemed to part for him naturally of their accord, as if a man of his obvious caliber was worth moving aside for, and they were privileged to exist in the same time and place as he.

Jim watched him from his place at his shoulder, casting looks to the eldest Holmes from under his hat, seemingly unnoticed to the masses as Sherrin pulled all eyes to himself. The night was cold, but the street was well sheltered from the wind, and the crowds made the temperatures tolerable. Sherrin's coat and jacket were unbuttoned, as if he was impervious to the cold, a man so past ordinary that such inconveniences as illness or discomfort were things for lesser mortals.

"We are here, my young mastermind, to finish the first round of clues for my darling baby brother. I'm slightly disappointed already, really. I left enough hints on the first victim that he should have realized who killed that mewling excuse for womanhood already," Sherrinford mused, amethyst eyes trailing over the crowds as they walked sedately down the sidewalk.

"Yes, that's why you're here- why am I here?" James grumbled as he was jostled by a pedestrian, and Sherrin smirked as the younger criminal did he level best not to lose his temper and kill the useless scrap of humanity there on the street.

Sherrin paused, a large group of tourists exiting from a store in front of them, his hands buried in his coat pockets. Several of the women sent him beguiling looks, tiny smiles or outright grins of appreciation. Sherrin merely lifted a dark brow at them, face impassive, and Jim rolled his eyes as the women went into fits of blushing and giggles. Their menfolk pulled them away, a couple of the women whispering to each other, all the while staring at the eldest Holmes over their shoulders.

Sherrin suddenly turned to Jim, and ran a leather-clad finger along the fine line of his jaw. Sherrin hummed as Jim shivered at the touch, and the older man slowly pulled away his hand. Jim was transfixed, those eyes holding him as securely as the shackles attached to their four post bed back at Jim's mansion.

Sherrin leaned down, and whispered in his ear. The scent of wood, seawater and smoke curled in the air between them, and Jim caught the underlying hint of hot blood rising from the taller man.

"You know why you are here, my dearest. Don't forget, it was your idea." Sherrin tapped the bill of Jim's cap, and the consulting criminal grumbled under his breath as the older man pulled back, and continued down the street.

Sherrinford wanted to be visible, needed it for his plans. It was Jim's job this time around to make sure that he, James Moriarty, wasn't. If they passed amongst the teeming masses of one of London's busiest streets, covered in CCTV camera stations, with Jim invisible and Sherrin drawing all eyes, then they were well set to continue. The risk of discovery just made it all that more exciting, and Jim needed exciting. His plans were set and waiting, merely requiring Jim to send a text and the fun would begin. His version of fun, with hundreds of people screaming and running around as chaos dissolved the cohesive whole of London.

Jim jogged after the sleek serial killer, hiding again in his wake, waiting for the monster clad in silk and cotton finery to pluck his chosen victim from the swarms of base humanity.

* * *

><p>Sherrin let Jim's petulance diminish from his awareness. The consulting criminal had always been one to avoid discomfort, and nothing made James's Moriarty more uncomfortable than letting someone else run the show. Though he should be accustomed to Sherrin being in charge, no matter the years since the last overlap of their lives.<p>

Sherrin slowed his pace, stopping in front of a restaurant on the first floor of one of Marylebone's best hotels. He waited, watching through the glass, as his target gathered her coat, wrapping the fur and silk around her bare shoulders. She said goodbye to her companions, who failed to watch as she left the restaurant, too absorbed in their fine drinks and conversation.

Sherrin made sure to keep his body angled away from the CCTV station over his shoulder, his back to the cameras, and Jim was unrecognizable in his role of grey shadow beside the brilliance of the eldest Holmes.

She was tall, nearly as tall as he, and slim. Model thin, but her dark hair and pale skin made up for the lack of muscle tone. Her long dress of washed silk, in gold and shimmery creams barely covered her lithe frame, and Sherrin applauded himself on his choice. Her skin was flawless, and the long lines of her body would hold up well under his blade as he left darling Sherlock more clues.

She left the restaurant, wrapping her coat tightly to her lovely body, and at first she didn't see him. Jim was back a few feet, invisible in his common attire and cap, as Sherrin stood out on the sidewalk like a beacon of refined tastes and wealth. He knew the second she really saw him, as her deep blue eyes went from politely disinterested to an avid avarice of the physical variety. She trailed her eyes over his whole body, from the tips of his Italian shoes, up his long and leanly muscles legs, his narrow waist and muscled chest. His coat and jacket hugged his shoulders, accentuating the efficiently muscled flesh of his body, and Sherrin waited patiently as his prey became steadily enamored the longer she looked.

Her eyes ran over his face, unconsciously seeing the fine bones of a long line of the peerage in his features, and the white hair at his temples merely reassured her on a subconscious level that he had wealth, and in abundance, to match his demeanor and clothing. Sherrin saw the need in her eyes, and kept his face clear of all thoughts, and the silent roar of victory filled his soul as she sent him a sideways glance of interest, angling her body slightly to face him.

"Waiting for a taxi as well?" she asked him, coyly burying her lower face in the ruff of mink fur that lined her collar. Her deep blue eyes were almost black on the street lights, and she was pretending not to stare at him.

Sherrin sent her a tiny smile, and moved a foot or so closer, as if he found her ploys alluring. "On my driver, actually. It's a new Bentley, the poor man seems to think he'll scratch the finish if he goes too fast."

Her eyes flashed, and she turned to him completely, sliding a hand down her side, pulling the silky fabric of her dress tight over a hip, showing the flat lines of her stomach. She was reeling herself in, and didn't even know it. Jim moved closer to the street, and Sherrin knew he was calling the car, the prearranged signal passing silently between them as Sherrin confirmed his choice by mentioning the car.

"Your driver? The poor man, he must be terrified of his boss to make you wait as he babies your car." She tried to be charming, but she was trying too hard, and Sherrin resisted the urge to roll his eyes at her feeble attempts. He didn't want her for conversation, after all.

"He's paid well, he has nothing to complain about. And I try not to be a monster to the help." Sherrin ignored Jim when he snickered faintly from where he stood at the curb. His victim didn't even see Jim, her attention locked on him.

A great dark car purred as it slowed at the curb, and Sherrin moved next to the young woman, drawing her eyes as Jim and the car's driver traded places, the driver disappearing into the darkness as Jim got behind the wheel of the Bentley. She didn't see a thing, and the restaurant's valet was so distracted by the 'power couple' in front of his station that he didn't see anything either. The valet opened the door to Sherrin's car, and the elder Holmes turned to the car, raising that one brow again, to devastating effect. He sent her a glance, finally giving her a thorough once-over as she shivered on the sidewalk, and not from the cold. She swayed just the tiniest amount on her heels, her body all but screaming her interest and desire.

She was his, and she'd done all the work herself.

"I am heading for my private club. If you wanted, I could drop you off at your next destination, so you don't have to rely on a cab?" Sherrin motioned to his car, the interior lit up with the door open, the plush leather seats gleaming in the faint light.

"I truly shouldn't accept rides from strangers, sir. Even handsome ones." She smiled at him, belying her words of caution. She wanted to get in that car, and badly.

Sherrin held out his hand, accepting hers in a light grip, caressing the back of her hand with his gloved thumb.

"You may call me Sherrinford Holmes, my dear. Sherrin, for short." He bowed slightly, and lightly kissed the back of her hand. He raised up, and held onto her hand. She let him, and the monster stirred in Sherrin's heart.

"Camilla V. Heron, and it's a pleasure, Sherrinford Holmes." He kept her hand, and led her to the car, helping her slide in across the leather seats. He got in behind her, pulling the door shut. He hit a button, and let the lights stay on in the rear of the car, the windows darkly tinted so no one could see in. Jim pulled the car away from the curb, and the doors locked, soft clinks she paid no attention to.

"Holmes? Like that celebrity detective who lives here in Westminster?" Camilla asked him, and she leaned back in her seat, angled towards him. Sherrin reached out to the mini bar, and removed a chilled bottle of champagne. She smiled wide, and accepted the flute he passed her, making sure she got the correct glass. It wouldn't do to drug himself.

"He's my little brother, Sherlock. Haven't seen him in an age, actually." Sherrin sipped his drink, and she followed suit, the high quality tempting her to take a larger mouthful. "I came back to London to see him and my other brother."

"I didn't even know the famous Sherlock Holmes had a brother, let alone two. Are all three of you so devilishly handsome?"

Sherrin gave her a smile, making her giggle. The drugs would soon take effect, and she was now past the point of escape. He drained his glass, and put his flute back. She finished hers, and he put her glass away as well. He took her hand again, and distracted her by rubbing his thumb over her fingers.

"Sherlock is the youngest, and takes after our father, as do I. Mycroft takes after our mother, the poor man." Sherrin told her, and he smiled as Jim took them out of Marylebone. She wasn't paying attention, the drugs lulling her senses already. Camilla stayed focused on him, and the sensations coursing through her body. "I am the eldest, and I'm here to settle an old score."

"Settle a score? Do you not get along with your brothers?"

"They've thought me dead these past eighteen years, my dear Camilla. One tries to right the scales he feels were left unbalanced by my killing spree and his inability to convince the world I was a monster; and the other seeks to ease his guilt and culpability in my actions and presumed death by pretending I never existed." Sherrin held her hand tightly as his words sank in, her mind moving sluggishly now. She blinked at him, her head falling back on the leather seat. She tried to think through his words, and he saw the fear pooling in her pretty blue eyes as they finally sank in.

"I plan on killing my brothers, my dear." Sherrin grinned at her, and watched as her eyes drifted shut, the drugs impossible to fight. "Though I'll kill you first, sweet Camilla."

She was asleep now, drugged senseless. Sherrin dropped her hand, the pulse still strong despite the large dose of sedative she'd eagerly taken too fast.

"Take us out of Westminster, James. My kill house, please."

"Now it's getting fun. About time," grumbled the Irishman, shifting gears and letting the Bentley loose on the streets, the powerful engine devouring the distance between Sherrinford's house of death and blood and the City of Westminster.

* * *

><p><strong>Jan 16<strong>**th****, 12:00 AM**

**Ireland**

**Castle**_** Láidreacht**_

"_Is breá liom tú, Máire. Codladh, mo ghrá_."

Mary sighed as the whisper drifted over her cheek, the aroma of mint and whiskey following her thoughts as she finally found the ability to relax. Her body was tired, exhausted from the morning sickness that came at random times throughout the day and night, leaving her weak, sick, and cranky. She melted into the soft mattress, Jaime's body heat hugging from behind, shoulders to legs.

Jaime had the patience of a saint, an unexpected quality in the Moriarty scion. For a woman who hated stagnation of any kind, and who could kill without hesitation or remorse, Jaime was dealing with Mary's pregnancy far better than she was. It was if the pregnancy was a mission, and the goal was to get Mary to the other side of it, happy, healthy, and with a bouncy baby for whom she had yet to select a name.

Jaime and Clay kept giving her random names every day, and it was steadily becoming a game to see which of the two, mistress or disciple, could come up with the better selection. The ones Mary liked went on her list, and Mary would merely smile and thank them nicely for the suggestions, not letting on which ones she found favor with.

Mary yawned, and let the hand rubbing circles on her back lull her nearer to sleep, that fickle mistress she hadn't been able to make the acquaintance of for the last couple of days. Mary was seconds from sleep when she felt a flutter in her abdomen, so faint she would have missed it if she wasn't resting. Mary stilled for a moment, and it came again, the sure sign of the life she was carrying.

John Watson's child. Their daughter.

Mary finally got confirmation of the sex of the baby just that morning, the second ultrasound far more successful that the first. She and John were expecting a daughter, her deep-seated instinctive knowledge weeks earlier confirmed. The OB-GYN managed to narrow down her due date, and Mary felt a trickle of amusement as she slowly drifted, a stray thought coming to her. She was due around June 1st, and the doctor said it was possible she could deliver anytime around there, even the first couple of weeks in June. Mary thought of how likely it would be for John Watson to deign to come to the heart of the Moriarty criminal empire, even for the birth of his child, and she struggled to remind herself to tell Jaime NOT to kidnap John to make sure he came.

But this was John Watson, and the man wasn't afraid of anything. He would come, no matter where the birth was to take place.

The real battle would be the name.

Mary smiled as sleep claimed her, Jaime warm against her back and vigilant, her child growing at a steady pace and healthy. She had her freedom, her love, and soon a babe. Mary let her dreams rise up, knowing none of them would match the peace and contentment of the real world she called home.

* * *

><p><strong>January 16<strong>**th****, 12:00 AM**

**Harrow**

His kill room was his studio. The place of his life's work, where perfection was born from his artistry, and imperfections were wiped clean, forgotten in the cleansing fall of blood.

Amid the wood dust and the scent of pine and the sugary overtones of maple was the aroma of blood and gore. His statues, carved from the details trapped in his infallible memory, lined the walls of the long studio, windows cut into the roof letting in moonlight in sharp squares of cold illumination that he glided through, his prize tossed over his shoulder.

Sherrin carried his new inspiration down the long attic space of his studio, covering the entire top floor of the house he recently purchased upon his return to the UK. He'd watched her for days, making sure she would be where he needed her to be tonight. Two nights previous he'd brought her predecessor to this very room, and beautiful Cassandra was to be forever rendered perfect in a statue of willow and oak, an unfinished statue which even now graced the pedestal in the center of the room.

Sherrin paused beside the wooden column, the willow resting in its base of deep red oak, seeing the completed piece in his mind's eye. It would be done in a few weeks, as he never rushed his work. Camilla's piece would be done a few weeks after Cassandra's. He thought about it, and decided to carve Camilla from cherry and red maple.

Sherrin laid her out on the semi-reclining steel table, and secured her waist, ankles and wrists to the cold surface. He removed his coat and jacket, carefully hanging them from the coatrack next to the door. He reached for his rough leather work apron, and gave the door a cursory glance as James entered the room.

James had replaced his common clothing with a fine Westwood, sans jacket. The white shirt and grey slacks hugged his lithe frame, and Sherrin felt a shimmer of interest in his body as James rolled back his sleeves, revealing his muscular wrists and forearms.

"Come to watch… or make your first cut?" Sherrin purred, walking away from James as he trailed after him, walking around the wood cutting equipment and work stations.

"Are you referring to wood or flesh?" James asked, wiping off some sawdust as he got too close to a table.

"As if I'd let anyone touch my work. Shall I show you how I leave my marks on the lesser canvas?" Sherrin picked up a long thin blade from a tray as he returned to his muse, still sleeping under the effects of the drugs. Her long gold and cream colored dress shone under the bright lamps and in the light from the windows in the ceiling, the white light of the moon balancing out the harsh glare from the lamps.

"I've stabbed plenty of people, Sherrin. And they weren't tied down at the time, either." Sherrin heard the implied insult in James' voice, but he ignored it, in favor of examining his slumbering muse.

"Violence of such a caliber has no place in my art, James." Sherrin slipped the blade under the thin strap that ran over her shoulder, and sliced the fabric, reaching to do the same on her other shoulder. He slid the blade under the fabric along her side, and sliced the dress from ribs all the way down her side, past her hips to her thighs, and finally to the hemline where the dress pooled at her ankles. He reached down and gathered a handful, and yanked, removing the entire garment in one sharp maneuver. He tugged off her heels, and tossed them into the trash along with her dress.

With calm impartiality he sliced and removed her undergarments, noting the creamy perfection of her skin, pleased to find no surface imperfections. Nothing to make him alter the strokes of his blade, or to change the layout of his sculpture. Sherrin returned the knife to the tray, and lifted the covers from the drains in the floor, the entire attic reworked to handle the sluicing as he cleaned his muse. She slept on still, though not for much longer, as he was certain the ice-cold water would wake her quickly enough.

Sherrin unraveled the thick rubber hose from under one of the nearby tables, and kicked at the valve that was in a slight depression beside the table. A heavy stream of water roared out of the hose, and Sherrin adjusted the flow, so it came out fast enough to wash his canvas clean and not abrade the delicate skin. James backed up and hopped up on a table out of range of the water, pulling out his mobile as Sherrin pointed the jet of water at his living canvas.

The strangled shriek that rose from Camilla as the water hit her made James chuckle, not looking up, utterly engrossed in his mobile. Little bird chirps and peeps arose from the consulting criminal's mobile, and Sherrin sent him a glance of appraisal as he callously ignored Camilla's pleas and screams, leaving no portion of her body untouched by the ice cold water. Sherrin hosed her down, washing from her face and neck all traces of cosmetics, all the product from her hair, only stopping momentarily to ensure she didn't inhale the water as she thrashed her head from side to side, pleading and sobbing, her words lost under the torrent.

"Stop! Please! Let me go, please don't…." Her words tumbled over each other, not falling on deaf ears, but uncaring ones. James rolled his eyes as Camilla begged, Sherrin's attention for detail leaving her without dignity as he aimed the icy water stream lower, a waterfall filling the space under the table. The drains laid in the floor sucked the water away, Sherrin's shoes only getting a little damp before the water was gone.

"You'd think after all these years you'd finally pick someone with more originality than 'Stop, please, let me go'," James thoughtfully offered, canting his voice high enough for Sherrin to hear over the rushing water and the woman's whimpering. "It's always the same, boring murder victim after boring murder victim. No one with anything new to say."

Sherrin grinned, and closed off the valve, the only sound in the room the steady drip of water and the clattering of teeth as Camilla shivered on the steel table. She watched him with wide eyes, the deep blue full of terror and disbelief.

"I did, my dear boy." Sherrin exclaimed, whipping the hose back from the floor and roping it back up, packing it away. "Twenty seven years ago, to be exact. I found one singular and unique muse who moved my art as never before. And I have never found another since."

James froze, and Sherrin watched the younger man's face, as the consulting criminal made the connection. James gave him a tiny smile, and a slight dip of his chin, before returning to his mildly annoying app, the little noises rising once again from where he sat.

Sherrin turned back to his living canvas, moving over the chilled floor, feeling the frosted air as he wandered around the table, eyeing pretty Camilla from head to toe. He picked up a scalpel as he went, and pondered his canvas, making her jerk as he drew lines in the air over her body. He would not cut yet. No blade would touch her skin until he was certain in his work, his design.

Blood flow from a living canvas obscured the lines. His art shone through clearer once they were dead.

* * *

><p><strong>Jan 16<strong>**th,**** 2:00 AM**

**Baker Street**

"Sherlock, I think we ended up with _every_ case of mutilation-based murders in the UK, not just the unsolved ones," John complained as he balanced the three boxes full of case files, carrying them up the stairs to the flat. Sherlock was similarly burdened ahead of him, only he had one box to John's three.

"Nonsense my dear doctor, I'm certain Lestrade can find some more. There's thousands of cases left unsolved by the Yard that meet my criteria." Sherlock dropped his one box unceremoniously on the floor beside the desks, a flutter of papers and dust swirling in the air as Sherlock removed his outer garments, tossing them haphazardly across the nearest chair.

John took the time to put the boxes on the desks, careful not to drop anything or let a box topple over, though it was a near thing. John was about to take off his own coat when he saw Sherlock pause beside their chairs, staring down at the seat of John's.

"What is it, love?" John tossed his coat aside, and joined his lover beside the chair. John saw a heavy vellum envelope on the seat, his name in fancy script across the front. John huffed once in surprise, and reached down for it, oddly surprised Sherlock didn't snatch it out of his hands and start deducing it straight off. He sent the detective a wary sideways glance, even waved the heavy envelope at him, but Sherlock made no move to take it from him, face impassive, thoughts unreadable.

It was as if Sherlock knew already. Of course, the man always knew, didn't he?

"Wonder who it's from?" John turned around and sat in his chair, and he absently noted Sherlock lighting the fire in the hearth. He slipped a finger under the edge, and gently ripped the paper.

There was a silky finish type of paper inside, and a thick, folded note. The fire lit the room as it grew, and Sherlock was still crouching at the hearth, the glow from the flames casting half his face in shadow as he stared at John. The light increased, and John flipped the square of strange paper over, sucking in a deep breath as he recognized what he was seeing.

It was a picture from an ultrasound. There, in the top corner, was the name, "Baby Girl Watson'.

His baby.

He was having a daughter.

John wasn't aware he was crying until he felt a tear fall, a cool trail of liquid racing down the back of his hand. A graceful white hand came gently into view, and removed the ultrasound from his hands before his tears could mar its perfect finish. Sherlock placed it on the armrest, and he knelt at John's feet, resting his chin on John's knees. Sherlock was really too tall to sit so folded up, but John couldn't think of any words, nor thoughts to form words, to tell Sherlock to sit up.

He was going to be a father, to a bound-to-be-beautiful little girl, and his heart was breaking. All from a single piece of paper, covered in grey, white and black ink.

Him. A father.

And he wasn't there to see her grow. He wasn't there to feel her kick and stretch, to wait impatiently for the day he would be able to hold her and give her a name. He wasn't there.

"Read her letter, John."

John shook his head, unable to understand Sherlock past his grief. For that's what he was feeling- grief. Sadness he wasn't there to experience the joys of impending fatherhood, that he was being denied the right to be there every step of the way because the mother of his child loved a madwoman, and one who was supposed to be dead, and chose to exercise her newfound freedom by being at aforementioned crazy lady's side instead of staying here in London.

"What?" John gasped out, tears dripping from his lashes.

"Read Mary's letter, John."

John shook his head again, but pulled out the thick paper, and opened it with unsteady hands.

_John-_

_I couldn't wait to show you our baby girl. I would have sent pictures earlier, but she was shy the first time I tried to find out what we were having, so I refrained from sending pictures until now. If I was there, I would have asked you whether or not you wanted to know her sex, but since I am here, and as I cannot return alone without someone getting upset, I believed this was the better alternative._

_I'm fine, John. I am happy, and healthy despite the continued morning sickness that comes and goes. I'm not in any danger, and there's no one threatening me or our unborn child. Thank Violet for me again, will you? I wouldn't be enjoying my current circumstances without her…. or Sherlock, really._

_I wouldn't be where I am now without you, either. _

_Thank you, John._

_You and I are sharing the greatest gift two people could possibly have in their lives. A child. A daughter. My heart breaks and heals just saying the words aloud as I write this. We're having a baby._

_I know you, John Watson. I know you want me back in London, so you can watch over me, and over her. I know you feel cheated, and hurt. I am so sorry._

_Don't be sad, John. I am happy, and loved where I am. So is she. And don't worry about being here when it's time. Our mutual acquaintance will make arrangements, so please trust me, if not her, when I send for you, no matter the means by which it happens, or when. I'll try and send a warning if I can. Just be ready._

_I've enclosed possible baby names I like on the second sheet of the letter. Please feel free to agree or disagree, or add ones of your own. Leave the list with your choices on the mantel, and our mutual acquaintance will see it backs it back to me._

_I love you, John._

_-MM_

_P.S- Yes, Sherlock can come too, when it's time. If he wants._

John felt his tears dry on their own. He sucked in a cleansing breath, and slowly let it go, feeling the sadness and grief fade away, Marys' words easing something inside of him he didn't realize was there.

Sherlock peered up at his face from his spot on the floor, and John gave him a tremulous smile, cupping his face with hand now steady and sure. John brushed the silky curls, ran his thumb over the dark arch of his brows, and gazed deeply into the heavenly eyes of his detective.

"How did you know it was from Mary? You knew before I opened it, didn't you?" John asked softly, curious, his heart at peace.

"The envelope is the same type a certain consulting criminal used when he sent me a letter, my name in female script across the front. I suspect it was his sister's handwriting then, too." Sherlock made no mention of names, yet John knew very well who he was referring to.

The Moriarty siblings.

Both were officially dead. One they knew for certain was alive. And the other…. Sherlock believed he lived, too.

But that was a conversation they'd avoided having for a couple of weeks, and John wasn't going to have it now. Not now, his daughter's ultrasound picture at hand, his heart full of love and pain and an overwhelming mess of impatience and dread.

John sighed loudly, and leaned forward, wrapping his arms tightly around Sherlock's neck. He hugged his detective to him, and Sherlock hugged him back. John leaned on his lover, and let himself feel.

* * *

><p><strong>Jan 16<strong>**th**

**Harrow**

**8:00 AM**

"I said not to move, James," Sherrin grabbed his hair, and lifted his head from the mattress with a single hard yank. Jim growled, making Sherrin tighten his grip as the older man moved over him.

The shackles held him spread wide and open, the leather cuffs impossible to fight as Sherrin rested his weight fully on top of him. Jim groaned, anger and lust raging in his gut as he felt Sherrin's hands run down his shoulders, over his back, gripping his hips. Big, strong hands that held no kindness, only a perfect awareness of how rough he could be before Jim's body broke and he crossed that unspoken line. Sherrin never crossed it, yet Jim's threshold was so deeply off course from any sane person's limits that Jim knew that every time Sherrin took him, he risked a most inglorious end.

"What's your safeword, my dear boy?" Sherrin whispered harshly in his ear, and Jim laughed sharply at the incongruously civil sentence, the courtesy. Not that Sherrin would heed him if he ever broke and used his safeword- it was uttered merely for the titillation.

"Mayhem," Jim huffed out, and he felt Sherrin grin widely against his neck, his sharp teeth finding purchase on his vulnerable flesh. Jim hissed, then tensed all over as Sherrin lifted above him, naked skin rubbing and tugging as Sherrin yanked harder on the pulley system, forcing his arms and legs wider, stretching him taut in all four directions.

The mattress bounced under him as Sherrin reached for a pillow, folding it in half and shoving it under Jim's hips, raising his ass, his bare skin tingling at the thought of him spread open, totally helpless, the control he so prized wrested from him. The man above him was violence and death personified; and yet he let him touch him, expose him, fuck him.

Jim's mind, as ever, rebelled at the loss of his control, and his body responded, instinctively fighting the shackles. Sherrin sat naked on the back of his knees, well accustomed to this moment of rebellion in Jim. He couldn't stop himself; he roared and raged and threatened, pulling until his muscles screamed and his throat was harsh. Jim lost track of time, his mind and body fighting each other, the arousal and the indignity of his situation colliding. He didn't know how long the battle raged, yet when it was over, lust was yet again the winner.

Sherrin waited, and Jim only recalled his was there still once he moved over him, fingers running up the back of his legs, massaging hard, kneading at his buttocks. Jim was hot, and tired, and every muscle in his body ached, yet his cock still jumped as Sherrin spread his ass cheeks, thumbs pressing at his entrance.

"Say it, James," Sherrin ordered, pushing with both thumbs. Jim felt the ring of muscles clenching, resisting, but his cock loved the tension, leaking over the pillow under his hips. Jim shook his head, refusing to give in this final time- refused to let Sherrinford bloody _Holmes _know exactly what he wanted, what he savagely needed. His body burned, he was being devoured by the flames in his soul, his mind torn asunder by the lust and the rage and the absolute disbelief that this man was owning him and _that he wanted more._

"Say it!" Sherrin pushed one last time, the friction without lubrication almost too much for him to endure- Jim finally capitulated, and yelled his answer as Sherrin's thumbs breached him, shocking his whole body.

"_I want to destroy them all!"_

"Good boy." A deep chuckle echoed over him, and Jim cursed his inability to see, as he had a wrenching sense of déjà vu… and that for a second, he thought the other Homes was in the room, holding him down. That split second hardened him further, and left him panting with want.

Jim bucked and squirmed as Sherrin relented at last, dipping one thick digit inside of him, the other withdrawing, and then returning dripping with lubricant and easing the passage of his fingers. Sherrin slicked him thoroughly, all the while Jim was left a quivering collection of conflicted muscles and excited cock.

When at last Sherrin covered him completely, the Holmes' long body forcing him into the mattress, the shackles pulled tightly at the added weight, only then did Jim surrender. The chaos in his head waned like fog over the river, the sun rising high in the morning sky. Sherrin was the sun, burning out the niggling side voices, the tenuous, sporadic flights of anger and mania. Sherrin burned it all out, and left behind only absolute purpose, conviction that no matter what happened to him, his plans would continue. He would succeed.

So when Sherrin finally entered him, his thick masterful length stretching him wide and thrusting without hesitation to the hilt, Jim completely let go. And lived in the fire.

* * *

><p>Jim stepped out the front door of Sherrin's house, the building boarded up and closed, the real estate agent's sign still out on the iron wrought gate. Anyone looking form the street wouldn't be able to tell that the townhouse had a new owner, nor that it was occupied.<p>

His body was stiff, muscles strained slightly from Sherrin's ….. Over exuberance. His lip curled, recalling the barely restrained violence that had coiled out from the older man. Not long after Sherrin's initial examination of his 'living canvas', the Holmes brother had damn near dragged him downstairs, and they'd barely made it to one of the sparsely decorated bedroom and the plain bed before Sherrin ripped off his clothes and …..devoured him. Jim grinned as he recollected Sherrin's propensity for carting around multiple sets of shackles, and rolled his neck and shoulders, feeling them again as his muscles complained. Sherrin, for all his savagery, always left him refreshed, his mind clear, his schemes and plans laid out before his mind's eye in wonderful detail.

His driver was waiting, and Jim discreetly got in the back of the Cadillac, the vehicle high class without being obvious. He needed the subconscious deference afforded to a wealthy person on the road, yet the subtlety of being one among many such people on London's streets. It was imperative that he remain unseen.

Of course, saving Sherlock Holmes' life months earlier probably didn't help matters in that regard, yet all his watchers kept assuring him that Sherlock wasn't looking for him, not openly at least. It was if Sherlock had forgotten all about Jim Moriarty pulling his ass out of the fire. Literally.

He couldn't let Sherlock die, not like that. Not in a fire, consumed by something as boring as flames, instead of his sister's wrath, or his scheming and manipulations. No- the end of Sherlock Holmes would come by the hand of a Moriarty, or not at all. And devil help the fool who sought to take what was claimed by a Moriarty.

He shouldn't have been watching, not that night. Being back in London was such a bad idea, especially after Moran let himself get caught, by Sherlock Holmes off all people. It was so sad, recalling those couple of weeks the previous autumn. Not sad for Sherlock and Co., but for Jim. His carefully orchestrated diffusion of blame onto the North Koreans was wasted as Lord Sebastian Moran failed in his mission, got caught by Sherlock, and then let Jaime kill him…. with a kiss, no less. All of it rang like a bad melodrama on late night telly.

If only his operative hadn't died, then MI6 giving credence to another dead spy's words….. Then they would have let Sherlock keep racing around on the Continent, tearing down the old syndicate as Jim built another one in his wake, the foundations of the old supporting the new.

One hiccup after another. After two years of perfection, his plans threatened to unravel past the point of salvage all because one man, Moran, failed to push a damn button. Never mind that Sherlock disabled the bombs. Moran was at fault for the whole of it, and he was past Jim's grasp. And then, when he thought his darling sister would rescue his grand schemes and destroy London on her own, all out of loyalty _to her brother,_ she went ahead and….. Horrors!…..fell in love.

The most utterly boring cliché of all time was redemption through love. And Mary Morstan, once the best hired killer in the world, made his madcap baby sister trip over her training and convictions and fall in love, redeeming the both of them and giving them a new team to play for, innuendo meant. Twice.

Jim wanted to gag. This love business was sickening.

Then…. THEN…. Someone activated Reaper. The failsafe. The failsafe that Jim was certain Jaime would never activate because it would mean she really had let him go, and decided to live her life without _his influence._ That she would be in charge, when her place had always been to follow, and ONLY him. He never saw it coming, so two weeks prior, when she freed Reaper and took over, Jim was left confounded. In total disbelief.

Yet Reaper was activated, and it changed the dynamic of his plans. She was now Lady M in truth, and her lowly lieutenant her chief disciple. With the whisper of Reaper racing around the world, Jaime single handedly picked up the reins of the old inner web of the syndicate, and without her knowledge, almost all of the new strings of the web as well. He wasn't out in the cold; thankfully he had foreseen the wisdom of weaving himself, under an alias, into the web before Reaper locked out all of his old commands and passwords, giving the lot to Jaime.

For Jim to destroy London and the Holmes brothers, he would need to bring his sister to heel. His favorite weapon was enjoying far too much autonomy.

Time for her to remember who was in charge. And once Jim tamed his wayward sister, he would start knocking down the hallowed halls of London, the UK, and the Western world.

Jim Moriarty was back, and he wouldn't stop until the world was burning. And he would be the one throwing the fuel on the flames.

…... And having a Holmes helping him, spurring him on?

The flames would never die.


	61. A Living Ghost

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but he owns me.**

**A/N: Sorry for the long wait between chapters. Real life interrupted. **

**Special thanks to my editing awesomeness-personified Silvereyedbitch for her help. I lurve you!**

**WARNING: SEX. BLOOD. MURDER. Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 61<strong>

"_**A Living Ghost"**_

**London, Mycroft's Townhouse**

**January 16****th****, 9:00 AM**

"Sir, the reports are in from our operatives on the Serbia issue." Mycroft's temporary aide told him, and the spymaster barely acknowledged him as he held his hand out for the folder. The bookish, thin and very nervous aide gulped once, and handed over the folder, arm outstretched as if he were afraid of losing his fingers.

Mycroft sent him a quick glance, already mentally dismissing this young man from his list of possible personal assistants. Far too timid to be of use in the long term as he seemed to be more afraid of Mycroft as time passed, not less. Fear was a useful quality to have in his people, but a personal assistant for him needed to be made of sterner stuff.

Like Anthea.

Mycroft's fingers tightened briefly on the folder, his eyes shutting as he fought back the pain he felt, just from thinking her name. At least, the name she let the world call her. Mycroft was the only man, the only person left alive who knew the name she was born with, the name she let go the day she accepted the job at his side. It would take John Watson to spur her to make her final choice of her new name, and Mycroft tried to recall the sense of levity he had gotten when she told him about the doctor's attempt at flirting on the same night he tried to buy the man to spy on Sherlock.

"_You alone know my real name. Will you whisper it into the dark night air? So that I can hear you say it, and so you know that you will never be alone, no matter where I may be?"_

"Darling?" Mycroft opened his eyes quickly, lifting his head to see Gregory leaning on the doorway of his private office, the one adjacent to the bunker on the basement level of his townhouse. He'd keyed Gregory's palm signature into the security systems, so the DI could move freely about the house as needed. It was a fact he didn't share with MI6, and he was keeping it that way. The less his peers knew about his lover, the better.

"Yes, Gregory?" Mycroft struggled to put aside his sadness, lest his lover see it, and know the cause behind his depression. He wasn't that successful, as the DI's kind eyes caressed his face, showing the spymaster that Gregory saw the lack of sleep, the paleness, his exhaustion dragging on his thoughts and emotions. He was tired of _being_ tired, and he hated letting his lover see his pain, even if the other man never complained or made one negative comment about the source of his grief.

He didn't deserve Gregory Lestrade. Sainthood was too insignificant for the DI and his endless patience.

"I'm off, got a meeting at the Yard, but I'll be back early tonight. Unless Sherlock has something for me on the new case, anyways," Gregory told him, entering the office. The aide scurried unremarked from the room, dodging around the bigger form of the DI. He wasn't an overly large man, but he had an air about him that clearly communicated he had a weapon, and he didn't mind using it. Mycroft knew that wasn't the case, as Gregory was a relatively easy going man who rarely lost his temper, but it served to protect him if people thought him more prone to violence than he was. So Mycroft never corrected his peoples' erroneous assumptions, and hoped Gregory never did either.

Mycroft grimaced at the mention of his little brother, and the DI caught it, giving him a tiny roll of his eyes. He hadn't spoken to or seen his brother in weeks, and had no intention of doing so in the near future. He wasn't stopping Gregory though, and no matter his issues with Sherlock, his brother's assistance with his lover's cases would insure the DI would be spending less time at the Yard, and more time with Mycroft. Gregory was aware of how he felt, and kept the mentions of his brother to a minimum.

He leaned back in his chair, as his lover rounded his desk. Mycroft felt his body sit up and take notice and his blood warm as he watched Gregory stride to him. He was still tall and fit and strong, despite his gray hair and the faint lines around his eyes. His lover reached his side, and Mycroft gave him a small smile as Gregory reached out and turned his chair, spinning his chair gently to face him. Mycroft leaned further back, as Gregory lightly nudged his knees apart and stepped between them, leaning down over him. He braced his hands on the armrests of the chair, and Gregory moved in those last few inches, noses touching, lips barely restrained from kissing.

"Miss me while I'm gone?" Gregory whispered, his dark eyes glinting as he teased, not closing that last distance and giving Mycroft the kiss he wanted, that he needed. He groaned quietly, and sought out Gregory's lips, stealing a small kiss. It was the barest of contact, soft yet firm lips rubbing, nibbling, before it deepened, became more. The taste of him, the feel of his warm, wet mouth and strong tongue filled him with a deep, everlasting sensation of heat and love. The sadness evaporated, and Mycroft forgot his lack of sleep, the stress of missions gone awry and people dying. The only thought he had was of Gregory, and the taste of his kiss.

Mycroft pulled back for air, and searched his lover's eyes. He saw an answering love, and his heart stuttered. "I always miss you when we're apart, my love," he whispered, mindful of where he was, and who may be listening. His people were never far away, not here on the business end of the house. Gregory's eyes warmed at the rare bit of silly sentiment that Mycroft couldn't restrain, and his lover gave him a quick kiss before standing up.

"I'll call if I get delayed, either by the case, or Sherlock." Gregory wasn't afraid to mention Mycroft's brother, and he bit back his annoyance. No matter how much he may want to, he wouldn't ask Gregory to stay away from Sherlock. His nerves were strained, a nebulous fear whispering in his heart that people always ended up hurt or dead the longer they stayed near Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft watched as Gregory left his office, giving him a scorching glance over his shoulder before disappearing down the hall. His escort peeled away from the far wall of the hallway where they'd waited for the DI, and Mycroft sighed in relief as he remembered that even if the master of MI6 wasn't there to personally watch over DI Lestrade, then at least his operatives were.

* * *

><p>Violet was walking up the short steps of her uncle's townhouse just as the door opened, and Greg stepped out. He grinned wide as he saw her, and she sprinted up the steps, hugging him enthusiastically. He held her just as tightly as she held him, lifting her off her toes for a moment before letting her down gently. She got the faintest hint of her uncle's cologne from the DI, and grinned again at the adorable couple things they did, like sharing toiletries and even dressing alike. If she wasn't mistaken, Greg was wearing one of her uncle's long coats and he looked sexy as hell, the dark blue accentuating the silver of his hair and the flash of his smile.<p>

"How's my favorite Holmes?" Greg asked her, and she winked at him in return, making him blush. She laughed, and hugged him once more before stepping back.

"I'm okay. Here to annoy my uncle. Going off to play catch-and-incarcerate with Sherlock and John?"

"Letting Sherlock run with things on his own today, I've got a meeting at the Yard with my bosses." Greg shifted on his feet, and she bit back a smile, trying not to let on she knew about the meeting. "Not that I could ever stop Sherlock from running with a case anyways."

He must be getting good at reading her, as his eyes narrowed suspiciously and he thrust his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels.

"Alright, give it up. You know something."

"Not telling." Violet grinned, thinking she really ought to hack back into the Yard's security feeds and watch Greg as he met with his superiors. She _really_ wanted to see his face when he learned why he was being requested at such a high level appointment.

"Not even a hint?" Greg asked, resorting to begging. He really was a handsome man, thick hair the shade of a winter fox's fur, and just as luxurious. His face was young and with few lines, and his body was muscled and healthy, fully recovered from the near-death shooting he'd experienced months earlier. If she went that way at all, her uncle would have some serious competition. Violet smothered that thought, thinking her track record of being attracted to people who were in love with her uncle was way too weird to handle this early in the morning.

"No hints, just a piece of advice. Say yes," Violet told him, causing him to squint warily at her as the wind picked up, bitterly cold and reminding her that she was wearing clothing more suited for spring and not the depths of winter. She shivered, and shoved him good-naturedly down a step, to the town car idling at the curb for him. "Go on, that's not something you want to be late for."

"I swear, if it's not one of your uncles, it's the other, and now I've got you to deal with…." Greg lamented with a smile and a shake of his head, and he waved as the valet opened the door for him. Violet waved back, and watched as the car took off for Scotland Yard.

_Definitely spying on that meeting. He's going to be fucking floored when he hears what the brass have to say._

Violet leapt up the remaining stairs, and swanned her way through the door, smiling at the guards in the front foyer of her uncle's house. She had an uncle to see about her father, and she wasn't going to take _No_ for an answer.

* * *

><p><strong>January 16<strong>**th**

**Baker Street**

John exhaled loudly, and dropped the file he was reading on the floor beside his chair, papers shooting out as the impact disturbed the other files carelessly discarded after he determined they were useless. Not that his opinion of useless would stop Sherlock from tearing through the case files anyway, even with John's endorsement of their relevance.

Sherlock was clicking away at John's laptop, and the doctor grinned at this familiar and annoying sight. Even years on, Sherlock still refused to use his own laptop, never mind that his was merely inches away. John was inured to the consulting detective's habit of treating the doctor's belongings as his own, and he suspected he'd miss it if he ever had to go without Sherlock in his life…again.

"Okay, Sherlock. I've got the files organized by similar kill styles, MOD, and victims. Kill styles by how the victims were killed, MOD by where the bodies were found and condition they were left in, and all victims of a similar type are correlated together. There's overlap, as apparently the majority of serial killers like to target young, beautiful women. Fucking depraved, that." John got up, and pointed to each stack, as Sherlock barely tipped his head in his direction. It may look like the detective wasn't listening, but John could tell by the way the man's muscles moved under his silk blue robe across his shoulders that he heard every word. Sherlock could multitask better than Mycroft's army of aides in the bunker.

Sherlock stood, one finger tapping the mouse pad on the laptop. John couldn't make out the screen, he thought it was a picture of some kind, but couldn't tell past Sherlock's arm. His head was down, and he was still, but for the _tap tap tap_ of his nail on the plastic casing.

"What?" John asked, sitting up, feeling a change in the air. Sherlock was on to something, his thoughts spinning. John could tell, never mind he couldn't see his detective's face. Sherlock exuded an air of realization, as palpable as shock or anger emitted by an average soul.

"You read all the files?" Sherlock asked, his deep voice rumbling, the words clear and concise.

"Yes."

"Can you arrange them by location? Unusual body dumps or kill sites?"

"Um, yeah, have it that way already…or nearly? How unusual are you wanting?" John got up, and grabbed the piles relating to where the bodies were found. He walked to the desk, arms full of case files, and finally got a glimpse of the screen. It was the weathervane from the rooftop, zoomed in on the black iron design. It was a twisted relic of Gothic nightmares, a monster of some kind rearing back on what could be two legs, heavily clawed. It was catlike in appearance, slim to the point of being serpentine, and the ancient iron was black and heavy.

John was arrested by the ominous sensation of being watched that seemed to pour off the screen, the zoomed in picture from Sherlock's mobile glaringly clear and making him feel like they were back on that rooftop. He could almost smell the blood.

"John?"

He snapped out of the near trance-like state he was in, the eerie tingles falling away.

"What?" John asked, pretending not to see the bemused smile on Sherlock's face. "Here's the files." He dropped the stack, and Sherlock reached out a pale hand for the top folder, never taking his eyes from his doctor.

"Stop looking at me like that," John demanded, and his glower bounced ineffectually off Sherlock, as usual.

"How am I looking at you?" Sherlock asked, sounding all prim and restrained, when John knew he was anything but.

"Like you're reading my mind and laughing inside." John grumbled, grabbing another folder, contents full of blood and gore on silky smooth HD pictures. He flipped it, so used to the horrific pictures he hardly saw the images anymore.

"I don't look at you like that." Sherlock acted aghast, but John saw through to it to the tiny twitch on his lips, the detective's eyes glowing as John glared.

"Yes, you do. And what was that epiphany you had just a minute ago?" John tossed the folder, and pointed at Sherlock, making the taller man quirk a single brow. "I know you did….. You got another look."

"All these looks you say I have, must be difficult keeping them all straight."

"Easy as all get out, actually. Things always go crazy right after you get one. Survival on my part. Now spill."

Sherlock watched him for a heartbeat more, and then spun back to the laptop, turning the screen so John could see the weathervane in all its creepy glory. He didn't realize he called it that aloud until Sherlock huffed softly in amusement, enlarging the image with a few clicks.

"Why did the killer choose this spot? Sure, the location does a lot for ego and bravado, sends a statement and a challenge all in one. But there's comparable buildings, and easier to get to the roof. That crane being there was either a stroke of convenient luck to see at a pre-chosen spot, he chose the building because the crane was already there, or he arranged for it to be there. Two of the three options imply that building was what he wanted for his London premiere. So, going with the options with the highest likelihood, his placement was also important. What does that all mean?"

"He knows London rooftops? He's Batman," John sniped, following along but aggravated by the thought of one more psychopath out there to tangle with, this one cutting up innocent women and leaving their bodies in horrible tableaus.

"Yes, our new killer is Batman. Brilliant John, put a call into Gotham, they've lost a superhero." Sherlock rolled his eyes, and tapped the screen again.

"Wait, you don't know who the current Monarch is, but you know about Batman?" John asked, eyes wide, trying not to laugh. Sherlock was just too much sometimes. "He's an American superhero, too!"

"The Americans occasionally get things right, my dear doctor. And I was a boy, once upon a time. He used to be called the 'superhero detective,' so of course I know who Batman is. Now focus John, stop avoiding the creepy monster in the harmless weathervane." Sherlock ran a finely manicured nail over the lines of the monster, and John followed its path, distracted by the strong fingers of his lover.

"This is why he chose that rooftop. This monster, here, captured in ancient iron and left adrift on the elements. Tongue in cheek this killer is not; he knows what he is. He knows he's a monster. This is him." Sherlock's voice grew soft, his words hissing out near the end, snagging John's attention completely. Sherlock was intent on the monster, his finger paused over its heart. His heavenly eyes were burning, and John knew that look.

Sherlock was enjoying himself. Personal history aside with serial killers, Sherlock Holmes reveled in the hunt.

"So he knew about that weathervane in particular, then. Obviously," John thought about it, and chewed on his lower lip. "Right?"

"Hhhmmmm," was Sherlock's reply, and John rolled his eyes. "Yes, John. Illuminating as always." Sherlock smirked and John huffed quietly, a wry smile on his lips. "Not that knowing about the weathervane is in itself a clue. Anyone with decent eyesight and walking the street below on a fairly routine basis would know about it. Subtle it is not. No John- the weathervane is an indicator of the killer's mental thought process, how he sees himself, how he wants us to see him, not as a clue to his actual identity. At least not yet. I think we'll be seeing more monsters haunting this case before it is over."

John dropped his head; shoulders slumped, dreading Sherlock's prediction for the future and at the same time feeling excited. Sherlock wasn't the only one who enjoyed the hunt, and they were sorely lacking in high caliber criminals the last few weeks.

"I think we'll be seeing a pattern from our killer, John. Mythical and legendary monsters, creatures of lore at or near dump sites for his victims. Hand me my phone, will you? I need to text Lestrade."

John sighed, seeing the detective's mobile weighing down the pocket of his blue silk robe. Sherlock was busy sitting back down, typing away on John's laptop, and he leaned over, hand digging in his pocket. John pulled out the younger man's mobile, and handed it over, Sherlock not looking up from the computer as he took the phone on a long fingered hand. John dropped a kiss on the messy curls, and rubbed a hand across the lean shoulders of his lover. Sherlock hummed softly, absently enjoying the caress, and John smiled.

* * *

><p><strong>Jan. 16<strong>**th**

**Mycroft's Townhouse**

Violet glared at the aide as he ran away from her down the hall, nearly tripping over his own feet as he tried to keep one eye on her and one eye on the floor in front of him. He rounded the corner of the hall, and she heard a muffled crash. She assumed the aide went sliding and smacked into the wall or floor. Violet snorted loudly, before giving in to her laughter.

"What exactly is so funny, Violet?" Mycroft asked drolly, moving papers around on his great oak desk as she walked in from the hall. Violet shut the door behind her, clicking the lock, and Mycroft merely raised a single brow, in a manner identical to Sherlock's. He wouldn't appreciate hearing that bit of sentiment, so she just smirked at him.

"I think they get even more frightened of me every time I come by. Who's telling them horror stories before bed about the scary American girl?" Violet quipped, throwing her coat and bag on top of Mycroft's desk, before dropping herself in one of the leather chairs across from her uncle.

"I don't, if that's what you're asking. You scare them enough on your own without any help from me." Mycroft leaned back in his chair, hands on the rests, and he sent her a look that would unnerve a lesser mortal. She just smiled back. "To what do I owe this pleasure, niece of mine?"

"Seems you're the main source of intel I need to talk to about my father." Mycroft's face blanked as she spoke, growing pale and his eyes flinty, but she pushed on. "I asked Sherlock about my dad, but I think I broke him. John reminded me that he was just a kid through it all, and if I wanted to know about my dad, I should ask you."

Violet held her breath, afraid she'd get shown the door; or be witness to a rare display of Mycroft's temper. She was even prepared to blackmail her way into learning what she wanted to know, several of MI6's current ops' files not as secure as they could be, and vulnerable to an intrepid hacker with family issues. Of course, ever since she created the Kingdom Key and gave it to Mycroft, the UK was a lot more secure than the rest of the world, and she wasn't about to muck up her hard work by messing with MI6 and its missions. Not that Mycroft would know that, but still. She had limits. Sometimes.

"Mycroft?" Violet asked softly, after a few minutes of total silence from the spymaster.

Mycroft blinked, as if coming out of a trance, and his eyes found her face. She knew, instinctively, that he wasn't seeing her, but her father, the resemblance between them marked and extreme. It was a wound that her whole family felt when they saw her, but for Sherlock. Where it would take Mycroft or her grandparents a nanosecond to recover upon seeing her after a long stretch of time, Sherlock was never bothered to begin with. He was free of hang ups about her appearance, and she loved him all the more for it.

"Come with me." Mycroft stood quickly, around his desk and halfway to the door before she finished registering his words. She leaped to her feet, and grabbed her coat and bag as she ran out the door behind Mycroft. He led the way to the bunker, and she followed him through the door.

"Everyone out. Come back in two hours." Mycroft's voice carried out over the large, cavernous space, echoing off the walls, startling the occupants. Aides all jumped to their feet, securing stations before hurrying past Violet and Mycroft where they stood by the door. "Down here."

Violet gave some of them sickly sweet smiles as a few gave her nasty looks, probably for all the times she made them look like idiots. It wasn't her fault, either. Some of them really were idiots. MI6 should've hired smarter people.

Violet followed him as he went towards the second level of the bunker, a grand, flat expanse of a floor that she recognized as Sherlock's Mind Palace made real, a virtual holographic projection interface that let her youngest uncle share his leaps of genius with other people. Violet stopped at the bottom of the stairs, as Mycroft returned to her from his short side-trip to a station nearby. In his hands was as small, black lacquered box, and he opened the lid. Inside was a wireless earpiece, like she had for her cell, and two bracelets, wide enough to fit a man's wrist.

"Sherlock's Mind Palace program? But he's not here." Violet looked up at Mycroft, his face creased by frown lines, brows tense over his eyes. "Isn't it engineered to interact with him alone?"

"Yes, it is. Yet you and he are so similar, so alike, it will work for you. Of that I have no doubt." Mycroft removed the two bracelets from the box, leaving the earpiece inside and closed it, tossing the obviously expensive box lightly to the stairs were it landed with a soft thump. Violet dropped her coat and bag beside the box, as Mycroft fitted one bracelet, then the other to her slim wrists, tightening them somehow. They appeared to be solid, yet were strangely lightweight, nearly impossible to sense unless she thought hard about them.

She shook out her arms, and watched the lights in the bunker play off the smooth finish of the bracelets. Mycroft's fingers were warm, and moved with a grace she wasn't accustomed to seeing in her eldest uncle. She watched his face, instead of his hands, and found herself saying a thought she never meant to air aloud.

"It's always been you, hasn't it?" Violet said, the words pulled out, impossible to stop. She needed to say them, yet part of her dreaded it. She felt an odd urge to speak of something other than the wound that bled in the space between them. "You've always been the odd duck out, the one who didn't fit. Sherrinford, Sherlock, me...even Grandpa. We're all so alike, and yet you are so different from the rest of us."

Mycroft held her wrists, not looking up. She couldn't see his eyes, the angle of his face obscuring his thoughts. She pushed on anyway, knowing he was listening. "Sure, there are some mannerisms that are the same, learned behaviors and traits. Yet you've always felt different, different from both your brothers, even your father, when they were all so similar." Mycroft stilled, his fingers gripping her wrists more firmly, and she flipped her hands, to hold his. She'd never really held his hand, but for a few terror-filled moments here and there. He held her hands in return, as if starved for the contact; not knowing he was wanting from lack of touch. "It's why I'm wearing the bracelets to run Sherlock's ego builder, and not you. You can't make it work."

"No, I can't." His affirmation was said simply, without bitterness. Easy tone and diction, relaxed, yet full of something that made her hold him tighter. "And I have always been different. I learned this early on. And I am thankful for that difference, that lack of cohesion with our little family unit. It spared me the worst of the family's gifts." Mycroft looked up at last, green eyes dark with contained emotion, and she saw in them a powerful thought that made her skin shiver. "Our family has always had three gifts: Genius, madness, and anger."

Violet opened her mouth, but found no words to speak. She waited, eyes intent on his. He had more to say.

"Genius in its full glory is fueled by madness, and the madness is worsened by the genius. They go hand in hand. The curse, the payment if you will for the intellect we all share has always been a devastating temper." Violet didn't know how to respond, so she didn't. "Sherlock celebrates the madness as much as the genius. He enjoys his flashes of temper, exercising bare amounts of control. Sherlock is a fine balancing act of the three traits. It is an art for him, as much as his skill with bow and violin. Sherrinford…. Sherrin made no effort to balance the three. He indulged them all, reveling in the joys of genius, madness, and anger. That, I believe, along with a disturbing sociopathic diagnosis, is what led him down the path of blood and death….. and I….. I learned to separate the three. I have compartmentalized my own personality, so that I will never be vulnerable or susceptible to the passions and drives that exist in every Holmes. And that, dear niece of mine, is why I cannot use Sherlock's interface. I refuse to give in to the passion. The madness and emotions we feel so strongly are kept far from my surface thoughts. This machine is matched to how Sherlock thinks, as his thoughts are then interpreted into motion. As he thinks and moves so do you."

"What of me?" Violet queried. There was an ache in her chest, a vulnerability she wasn't used to feeling. "What do you see in me?"

Mycroft gave her a tight smile, and his hands grew hard around her fingers, almost biting. She didn't flinch, unafraid.

"You, Violet, you are a Holmes, through and through. The genius, a touch of the madness, even a dash of Sherlock's brand of sociopathic behavior. Yet where we men have the fury and temper and the manic reaches, you do not. There hasn't been a Holmes daughter in a very long time, and I think you are the exception to the family's penchant for insanity. You have an equilibrium that we lack, a natural bulwark. What I struggle to maintain on a daily basis, you achieve with ease."

"That's reassuring…. Well fuck, now I feel left out." Violet muttered, and Mycroft dropped her hands, smirking at her. The seriousness of the last few minutes was gone, and she silently asked her uncle what was next.

"I'll set it up for voice activation. You have two hours, Violet." Mycroft walked up the steps, and went to the nearest station, and she heard a deep muted roar of generators powering up in the far reaches of the room. "I'll be back once your time is up."

"Wait!" she called as he was about to walk out. He turned back, hands in his pockets, clearly impatient. "I thought Sherlock said that everything about my father was erased. Destroyed."

"That's what I wanted everyone to think. That's what I wanted Sherrin to think, what I wanted Sherlock to think." Mycroft told her, his words floating across the distance between them. "The password for his files is 'Brother Mine'."

With that he was gone, the great door to the bunker gliding shut, locking her in with nothing but an oppressive solitude and the ghost of her father.

_I thought I went through every file MI6 had. How did I miss the files on my father? How did Mycroft hide them from me?_

* * *

><p><strong>Jan. 16<strong>**th**

**Scotland Yard**

"Wait. What?" Greg was beyond shocked, heart in his throat, blood rushing so loudly in his ears he was certain he was either having a panic attack or was about to pass out. Probably both.

"I said, Detective Inspector Lestrade that you are to receive the Queen's Medal for Gallantry, for exemplary service to your country in the line of duty," Sir Albert Josephson, Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Service reiterated. He was a large man, with a bald head, small thin silver framed glasses, and a white mustache that only served to bleach the color from his already pale cheeks. He had bright blue eyes though, that were sparkling now in mischief as Greg tried to fathom the words the Commissioner was saying.

"I will?" Greg knew he was looking like an idiot, but he couldn't get over the shock. The Queen's Medal was reserved for heroes. It was for people who did amazing and astounding things, often dying in the process, while saving countless lives. It was for people…. It wasn't for people like him, an over forty divorced DI who was in love with a man he couldn't really talk about to family and his few friends, and who spent his free time drinking beer on a couch worth more than his entire year's salary, watching football on a television that wasn't his either, who let a self-admitted sociopath help him solve crimes. Such an honor wasn't for men like plain old Gregory Lestrade.

"Yes, DI Lestrade, you will. The ceremony will take place next month, and the reception gala will be held at The Dorchester, hosted by the Metropolitan Police Force and Buckingham Palace. I expect your full cooperation and participation with the press and media as we get closer to the event." Commissioner Josephson leaned back in his chair, the expensive seat creaking ominously under his massive frame. "I understand you're divorced. Do you have a significant other we need to be including in the photo shoots for the Times and the Guardian?"

Greg gaped, mouth working, no sound escaping. He snapped his mouth shut, and rubbed a hand over his face. He had a significant other for certain… but Mycroft was never going to step in front of a photographer. He couldn't be spymaster of MI6 and have a public profile.

"Um, I'll have to get back to you on that issue, sir. Photo shoots? Gala? Are you serious?" He was wishing this was a cosmic joke. Now he understood Violet's glee on the front steps of the townhouse this morning. He should have gone with his gut and run back inside the damn house.

"You're a national hero now. You stopped domestic terrorists from blowing up a bloody hospital, learned how to shut the rest of the bombs off, took out two terrorists, and got shot doing it, nearly dying in the process. That's hero material right there, and exactly the kind of publicity the Yard needs right now. The same kind of press the Palace needs right now too. We'll also be setting up interviews with your family and friends, coworkers in Homicide. There's no getting out of it, either."

"I…yes, sir." _What else can I say? Please don't do this, my family hates my guts because they're homophobes, my lover is really the man who rules the Isles and he can't be on the front page with your new national hero, and my case closure rate is owed to one of the few people I can call a friend, a sociopath the Yard thought it drove to suicide two years ago?_

"You have a day to get back to my office about who will be accompanying you on the photo shoot. It's at the end of the week." Greg nearly swallowed his tongue at that. He sat in shock, barely able to move as the Commissioner stood, buttoning his suit jacket. He stared up at the top brass, before remembering his manners and standing, too, hardly able to feel his feet, much less his legs.

"I have some meetings to be getting along to; it was a pleasure seeing you this morning. I believe you have a new case that needs your attention?" Greg nodded, mind still overwhelmed as the Commissioner placed a large beefy hand on his shoulder and guided him out of the office. "I look forward to seeing more of you, Detective Inspector. Keep making us look good in the papers."

He got a slap on the shoulder as the Commissioner walked off, flanked by a personal aide and two uniforms, disappearing around the corner. Greg was left on the top floor of the Yard, a steel and glass environment that felt as foreign as the surface of the moon. All he wanted in that moment was to go home, find Mycroft, and pretend the last thirty minutes hadn't happened.

He wasn't a hero. And his family would have plenty to say about it, too.

Especially his father.

* * *

><p><strong>Jan. 16<strong>**th**

**Baker Street**

The sedan paused on the curb, black and lethal-looking, and Sherlock watched as Lestrade prevaricated with whether or not to get out. After a few minutes the DI opened the door, and got out, every action screaming dismay. Sherlock watched as the car pulled away, stopping down at the corner where it idled. Two men in black suits got out of the car, leaning on its shiny exterior as they watched the street and the flat.

The bell rang, and John moved out from the kitchen, running lightly down the stairs. He heard John greet Lestrade, the two men joking easily. Sherlock turned to face the stairs, absorbed in watching Lestrade move, and as the two men gained the front room of the flat, he was convinced something was wrong.

_Eyes too bright, face pale. Accelerated heart rate, sweat along his collar and difficulty swallowing. Something odd has happened. Another murder? But if that was the case, he would have come with Donovan, not in Mycroft's car. It wasn't my text about the killings either, he doesn't waste time on pleasantries when it's a case that brings him here._

"What's happened?" Sherlock demanded, interrupting John, causing both men to look at him where he stood by the window. "And don't tell me it's nothing, clearly it's something."

"Hello, Sherlock, nice to see you too. How's your morning been so far?" Lestrade quipped, but without the usual level of exasperation he normally exuded.

Sherlock waved that off, putting his hands in his pockets, and he moved in on Lestrade, the DI backing up and falling heavily onto John's chair. He stood over Lestrade, and his proximity forced the DI to look up, craning his neck. Sherlock eyed him, part of him frustrated at evolution's lack of foresight in not providing him with the ability to read minds. Things would be so much simpler. No need for talking then.

"Christ Sherlock, bored already? No luck on the dramatic serial killer?" Lestrade hedged, plucking at his coat, which Sherlock saw immediately was actually one of Mycroft's. He looked away from Sherlock, rubbing a hand over the dark blue fabric, and it was the coat that clued him in.

"You're wearing one of Mycroft's better coats. So you had someone to impress this morning, and you wanted the psychological support of wearing your lover's clothes. Meeting at the Yard?"

Lestrade swore softly under his breath, and sent him a glare. John groaned as he rolled his eyes and went to make some tea.

"You know Sherlock, I did come here to talk about that, with the two people who would understand my problems, but then you had to jump right into deducing me. Christ, you really haven't a clue sometimes."

Lestrade sounded upset, but he wasn't looking at him while talking, so Sherlock made the leap Lestrade was upset about what happened at the Yard earlier.

"Here, Greg." John came back in the room, and handed the DI a cup of tea. Lestrade took it, and stared at the liquid, as if looking for answer in the bottom of the cup.

John moved to Sherlock, and he let the shorter man gently push him away, his hands pushing down on his shoulders, making him sit. Sherlock dropped in his chair, and sniffed at John's casual manhandling of his person. John merely smiled back at him, and left, presumably getting more tea. It was a very British reaction, fetching tea in an emotional crisis. Of course, he was assuming this was an emotional crisis. He wasn't too sure, even after the last several months of nothing but emotional crises.

"Ignore him, Greg. He's out of sorts all of a sudden for some reason," John told the DI as he came back in the room, handing Sherlock one of the two cups of tea he was carrying. His dear doctor smirked at him before taking a seat at the desk, placing his tea on one of the many stacked case files crowding the surface.

Sherlock held his tea lightly with one hand, contemplating how hot it was, and whether it would scald if he drank it all in one gulp. He'd get out of this conversation for one, which was apparently about him now and not about why the DI was here.

"Why's that? You've got half of Scotland Yard's case files in this one room; think you'd be happier than a loon escaping the bin," Lestrade quipped, sipping his tea finally, giving Sherlock a small smile as he swallowed.

"You're wearing Mycroft's coat." Sherlock hadn't meant to say that, feeling irrational and out of sorts, exactly as John had stated. It shouldn't be an issue, people lived together; they invariable ended up sharing clothing. He'd found John wearing his socks on more than one occasion. So Lestrade wearing his brother's coat shouldn't be an issue at all. Yet it was.

"I am. Looks great on me. What about it?"

"Nothing." Sherlock glared at Lestrade, hoping to shut the man up about his brother and on to why he was there and not at the Yard or having inappropriate relations with Mycroft at their place…. Oh, that image would never leave him now.

"Oh good God, I know what this is about. Are you two ever going to speak again, or do I have to make sure to sterilize myself of everything Mycroft before I come over here from now on?" Lestrade exclaimed, glaring at him.

"That would be an acceptable measure, thank you." Sherlock sipped his tea, and John broke out in laughter from where he was sitting. "What?"

"You two really need to get over your squabble, it's ridiculous." Lestrade sniped at him, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"There is nothing to 'get over', as you've so eloquently put it. I am not responsible for Anthea's death, and Mycroft needs someone to blame. Woodley is dead and out of reach- and here I am, guilty merely by proximity to the attack that took her life. I have nothing to get over."

"I don't hold you responsible, and he doesn't either. Not really. You two need to talk." Lestrade put his tea down, and leaned forward, too close to Sherlock for his comfort, but he refused to back away. "He loves you, Sherlock. He's your brother, and he's grieving, and he needs you."

"I am well aware that he is my brother. And that somewhere, under all that ice, he cares for me. It's a biological drive impossible to escape. And I am also very aware that he loved her more than he has ever loved me." Sherlock looked down at his tea in disgust, flabbergasted he'd said what he had and painfully aware of the stares he was getting from both John and Lestrade. "Mycroft has only ever needed me for my talents, and my casual disregard for the laws and society's strictures in the pursuit of the truth. He does not need me, the man, to be his brother."

"Sherlock…." John reached for him, suddenly standing at his shoulder, his hand warm and strong. Sherlock dropped his tea cup on the side table, and got up. John looked up at him, deep blue eyes caressing his face, concern writ clearly over his features. Sherlock dipped down, and gave him a nearly chaste kiss, before pulling away.

"Tell your sorrows to John, Lestrade. He's better equipped to help you than I am. I'll be back." Sherlock stripped off his robe, and put on the suit jacket hanging from the back of his chair, buttoning it up tight. "I have some of my homeless network to see today before the evening rush hour begins, and John's determinedly clean cut image scares them off."

"Love, you sure?" John followed him to the flat's door, and Sherlock wrapped an arm over his shoulders, tugging him close. John hugged him tightly around the waist, and they held each other for a short moment before Sherlock pulled away.

"I'll be fine. Enjoy your heart to heart. Text me if someone else dies, Lestrade," Sherlock told the DI, who was still sitting in John's chair, jaw tight, eyes dark with something Sherlock couldn't name. John handed him his Belstaff, and Sherlock shrugged it on.

Sherlock didn't wait for a reply, running down the steps and out the front doors. The slap of frigid winter air on his face was welcome. Too many emotions were driving him insane, and he had a pressing need to escape the man who did little but remind him of the brother who refused to speak to him.

He pulled out his mobile, and flagged a cab. He had a text from someone he was expecting. One of his best contacts on the street was back in town, and had something he was claiming was worth Sherlock's time. He hopped in the cab that pulled up to the curb, and dialed Billy Wiggins as the cabbie asked him where to go.

"Vauxhall Arches," he instructed, mobile to his ear. The man he wanted to speak with answered, and Sherlock smiled, "Billy, you have something for me?"

* * *

><p><strong>January 16<strong>**th**

**Evening**

**St Bart's Hospital**

When it comes to fastidiousness, there was no one keener on that trait than Mr. Milford Wiggins, a bookish, mouse-like man who wore spectacles and raggedy, dull-colored jumpers, and spoke in a squeaky voice that made people lean in, trying to hear him. He kept his closet-sized office immaculate, and even the casual sloth of the visiting nurses and doctors to his space, with their wrappers and snack boxes and random nitrile gloves that were immediately thrown in the trash in the hall outside his office never besmirched his domain. If anyone disturbed his desk, or twitched over the small carpet in front of the door, or made a comment about the absolute sterile environment, they found themselves and their supply requests mysteriously moved to the bottom of the pile, and left there until 'more urgent' requests were seen to first.

Mr. Milford Wiggins leaned back in his chair, letting out a deep sigh of contentment, staring at the stack of supply requests sitting neatly on the center of his desk. Time was ticking down, and soon he would be on his way home. His lovely wife was making his favorite meal, and his son was expected to be visiting from Kent. Young Billy was well on his way to becoming a fine man, taking after his wife's side of the family, thin and tall and freakishly smart. Aside from his regrettable habit of recreational drug use and spending too much time on the streets of London, Mr. Wiggins was satisfied he'd done well raising his only child.

Just as he was reaching for his desk lamp to turn it off, his phone rang. He jumped, laughing nervously at his reaction. He grabbed the handset instead of shutting off the light, and looked at the wall clock over the door just as it hit 5PM.

"Hello, this is Milford Wiggins, Supplies and Blood Bank Coordinator, how can I help you?" he asked politely, wondering who he'd have to annoy this late in the day by telling them their supplies request would be seen to in the morning.

"Good evening Mr. Wiggins, this is Alice from Franciscan Blood Bank, I'm just calling to inform you that your order of packed red blood cells, all antibody types, is on its way and will be there any minute. Apologies for the delay, we had some paperwork mix ups." The woman on the other end had a lovely voice, a charming upper class accent that swayed him to his bones, even if he had no idea what she was talking about.

"I'm sorry? I thought we already had our delivery earlier in the week?" he asked, brow crinkling, fairly certain the hospital had indeed received its blood shipment a few days before. And it wasn't short by units of any type.

"Oh! Truly? But it says here the order wasn't complete….. we only sent you about half of what you ordered. This shipment completes your order, Mr. Wiggins." The woman told him, sounding very sure and slightly apologetic.

He sat back, holding the phone to his ear, and eyed the clock. It was time for him to get home; he had a roast and a prodigal son to see. And if St Bart's ended up with free blood, then he wasn't going to turn it away. He'd figure it out in the morning.

"Oh, of course, I understand now. Yes, thank you. I'll make sure Receiving knows the shipment is coming. I appreciate the follow through on the order." He tried not to sound impatient, and he silently told himself he'd sort out the issue in the morning and send a check for the balance of the extra units. Maybe.

"Excellent. Thank you Mr. Wiggins, have a wonderful evening."

He hung up the phone and grabbed his coat and hat, heading for the door and shutting off the lights as he went. The odd shipping mishap was quickly forgotten as he strode down the hall, eagerly thinking about that night's meal and grilling his son about his recent activities.

* * *

><p><strong>January 16<strong>**th**

**Downtown London**

**7:00 PM**

_There is nothing more appealing than imminent catastrophe. Everything so peaceful, quiet….boring. Then the screaming starts._

Jim Moriarty adjusted his ball cap, pulling the bill lower over his eyes. The sun had set long before, but there was a chance someone would see him. It was imperative that no one learned he was in London, not until he wanted them to.

He was across the street, directly under a CCTV tower, out of sight and in the shadows, while buried in the after work rush, his people did their work. He wouldn't be here when the screaming started, as he had a date with a sociopathic serial killer to keep across town.

The cab pulled up, and he got in, nodding to the man who looked at him in the rearview mirror, eyes in shadow. No words were necessary as they left the busy downtown street behind. Things were about to get interesting.

The cab cut through traffic, heading for Hyde Park. It was Sherrin's choice, and Jim had applauded the audacity of it when the elder Holmes told him his plan earlier that morning.

The drive was short, and he was dropped off at the edge of the park. The gate here was open, allowing him to slip inside the confines of the city's most celebrated green space unobserved.

It was a charming view to be had, the trees all dormant and leafless, the grass a confused mix of green and brown, the smell of damp earth and mold carried on a brisk wind. The paths were strewn with leaves, wet in patches, and he hummed under his breath as he wound his way deeper into the park. The music was a song that played only in his head, unheard by the slumbering foliage and stone statuary he passed. Rossini's _The Thieving Magpie_ was a favorite, and Jim grinned as he jumped along the path, sailing over an ice-crusted puddle, leather boots skidding on the stones as he sang the wordless notes aloud.

The place he sought was buried deep in the heart of the park, a large stone gazebo used for musical performances in the summer, open on all sides, with four great Ionic columns supporting an arched roof twenty feet in height. Made of gray marble and aged by lichen and decades of London's acidic rain, it was a piece of architecture that invoked childish fancies of hauntings and ghouls. A ghost haunted it even now, a tall shade dressed in white robes, his black hair lifted by the cold wind, looking down at his feet, where coiled lengths of white rope lay in wait.

Jim leapt up the few great steps to the gazebo floor, the stone reducing the temperatures further, and he walked around the trussed up bundle laid against the nearest column. She was stripped and free of clothing, one of Sherrin's thick white robes covering her exposed flesh. An odd courtesy for a serial killer, yet Sherrinford Holmes was never less than a gentleman. Sherrin's newest acquisition glared at Jim as he passed, and he sent her a tiny finger wave and a cheeky grin before turning to Sherrinford.

"All goes well, I take it? I see no other reason for an impromptu concert of Rossini amidst the weeping beeches." Sherrinford gestured with an elegant hand covered in fine Italian leather out in the direction from which Jim had come, the path shrouded by the arboreal giants, silvery limbs barren of their dark green foliage.

"The screaming commences at seven AM, just in time for London's caffeine fix and the daily trek into perpetual cubicle drudgery." Jim hopped over a length of rope, the end already anchored and looped through the pulley system hidden in the shadows overhead, used by the tech crews during the summer shows. "Shall I be the mad assistant to the brilliant master? Or do you require an audience only?"

"Just observe, James. I'll not have your presence be noted by Sherlock when he sees my work in the morning." Sherrinford gestured to the column farthest from where he stood, and Jim went to it, out of the way as the master of blood began his work.

Sherrin grabbed with gloved hands the two ends of the ropes that slung down from the ceiling, anchored in two connecting corners on one side of the gazebo. He pulled, walking backwards across the wide stone floor, until most of the thick rope was suspended off the ground. He dropped the ropes, and went to his muse, her eyes blown wide by fear and the knowledge of her approaching end. Jim grinned wide as she struggled, and he marveled at Sherrin's gentleness as he roped his arms about her torso, easily lifting her from the marble floor. Her attempts to escape were feeble, hindered by the drugs Sherrin kept in her system. She was far from docile, yet there was no strength in her waif-like body.

Jim watched, avidly interested, as Sherrin pulled his living art to her feet, one hand tearing the robe away, leaving her naked to the arctic temperatures wafting through the stone building. Her wrists were bound, not by rope or steel, but by a wide band of plastic wrap, the sort used to cover food or shrink-wrapped over books and packages, looped around her lower arms multiple times. Her ankles were similarly bound, and he leaned her against his torso as he pulled free a knife from under his robe, a long wicked dagger that glimmered in the moonlight and the weak light from the far away lamps.

She made a mewling cry in her throat as Sherrin raised the blade, and with one swift stroke brought it down. Jim leaned forward eagerly, but all that happened was the neat extrication of her arms from the plastic. Jim fell back against the column, disgruntled, but he held his tongue. This was Sherrin's art, and he was deadly enough to warrant polite behavior on his part.

The knife returned to its place in Sherrin's robes, and the elder Holmes laced each of her wrists in the ropes. She tried to pull her arms free, but the drugs and cold air were sapping her strength, leaving her unable to cry out for help, or to put up more than a show of resistance. Sherrin pulled on the ropes again, until she hung above the floor, toes mere inches from the icy support of the hard marble. The long knife made another appearance and her ankles were freed, leaving her to swing and weakly kick, searching instinctively for a foothold.

The moon hung high in the sky, casting a brilliant swath of light over the woman, Sherrin's 'living canvas,' gilding her skin a bright silver and porcelain hue. He dipped to the floor, picking up the plastic restraints and putting them in a canvas bag that must have housed the ropes on the trip here. He then pulled out a folding broom, and snapped it out. Jim's brows rose to his hairline as he watched Sherrin methodically, in overlapping patterns, sweep the floor of the gazebo, back and forth, even gesturing for Jim to momentarily vacate his spot.

Sherrin offered no explanation, though Jim needed none. Sherrin pushed the small pile of dust and debris back towards the canvas bag, were he pulled out a dustpan and a plastic baggie, which he then disposed of the contents. The broom and the other items went back into the canvas bag, and Sherrin stood, stripping off his own robe. He put the robe away, and removed a tan canvas sheet, folded neatly and in a plastic bag of its own, which he then placed on the stairs furthest from the woman hanging from the ceiling of the gazebo.

Jim felt his body stir, as interested now in the proceedings as his mind. Sherrinford was lean and strong, muscles well defined, sparsely haired and pale as snow. His eyes glittered in the moonlight, the deep jewel-tones of the unique orbs arresting in their intensity. Age was avoiding Sherrinford Holmes; that nasty side effect of Fate and mortality had no bearing upon the man who stood naked and unaffected in the depths of winter. Other than the flashes of white at his temples, he was the near mirror image of his brother. Jim felt a thread of anger and discontent rise up in his gut, as the thought of the youngest Holmes was unavoidable. It was as if he were seeing the future—for one day Sherlock would look as Sherrin did now, sans waves instead of curls, and the color of his eyes. That is, if he wasn't going to be very, very dead, and soon.

Sherrin was naked but for his feet, tread-less leather booties of a kind Jim recognized as those used by thieves, the ones who specialized in cat burglary. No tread marks made it harder for the authorities to find forensic evidence at a crime scene, and kept Sherrin from leaving footprints and epithelial traces as he worked.

Blade in hand, Sherrin stood in front of his canvas, as she cried tears that froze and dried on her cheeks, her hair fluttering in the cutting breeze.

"Can you see her face, James?" Sherrin asked, his words echoing softly.

"I can, Sherrin. Lovely view. I'm not going to get bloody, am I? These jeans are designer, you know." Jim sighed, trying not to be impatient. _Artists and their setups. They take forever to get started._

"If you do, don't move. I'll have to account for every spilled drop, so don't go leaving trace around for the crime scene techs to find," Sherrin instructed casually, as he walked around his victim, her struggles exhausted, hanging limply from the ropes.

"Oh, the trials of being a serial killer in modern times. How dreadful," Jim snarked, and he crossed his arms, trying to ward off the frigid air seeping through his coat. "Get on with the good bit, will you?"

Sherrin was not paying attention, amethyst eyes locked on the woman. Her eyes were shut, cheeks finally free of tears, thin body stretched, ribs showing, curves minimal. Slim, tall, and beautiful, she was the type of woman who appealed to many men, her socially lauded features clear of blemish or marks.

"I've changed my mind…" Sherrin murmured, eyes drifting over her form. Jim straightened, confused, wondering what his companion might mean.

Her eyes opened, wild hope burning futilely in their depths, as Sherrin raised the blade. He took one slice, parallel to the floor, across her throat, so deep and fast that Jim was able to see the spark drain from her eyes. For a microscopic fraction of a second, nothing happened, as if time was too shocked to move forward, then blood, a great rushing flood of it, poured from the wound in the smooth column of her throat, splashing over the eldest Holmes, his long arm still extended from the swing that took her life. It coated him from his eyes, down his throat, his chest and abdomen, and dripped over his groin and thighs. He looked like a pagan priest of old, sacrificing a virgin under the full moon.

"… I'll carve her from young pine and willow, lithe and nubile, forever locked in youth."

Steam rose from the blood, pattering to the floor, dripping from her feet, the rich scent filling the slow moving air, staining the marble. The blade flashed as Sherrin lifted it again, his elbow and wrist bent, the angle of the cut now exact and finely controlled, the tip parting flesh still warm from the life bleeding out on the stones.

Blood, deep in crimson color, so dark it was nearly black, crept along the thin lines of the marble blocks that comprised the floor, coming close to Jim's boots, the temperatures finally freezing the thick liquid mere centimeters away. Jim grimaced and backed up, checking to make sure no blood had landed on him from the initial cut.

Sherrin worked in silence, the blade rising and falling, the body hardly moving as he made cut after cut, following a design hidden in the depths of his mind, one Jim could barely follow himself, for all that he knew what the lines drawn in flesh were meant to be. If he was having trouble seeing the underlying designs, then Sherlock would as well, insuring an extension of the killing game to a highly satisfying conclusion.

* * *

><p><strong>January 16<strong>**th**

**Vauxhall Arches**

**7:00 PM**

"Are you certain, Billy?" Sherlock asked, mindful of the grime and seeping waste underfoot as he followed the squirrelly thin man through the darkened brick and stone tunnels, the sounds of evening traffic distant and muffled.

"Right certain as I can be, Mr. Holmes, and my source is reliable. She's back here, doesn't like the elements all that much," Billy Wiggins gestured a skeletal thin hand towards the deeper shadows, were the vaguest hint of a person could be seen, cowering at the base of the wall.

Sherlock heard the scrape of a match, the burst of sulfur accompanying the flare of light. Billy was leaning over a bundle of quivering clothing, scraps of mismatched dingy colors and types, all covered in a ubiquitous layer of dirt. A gray, round face with small eyes peered up at him, dull and seemingly lifeless, yet they moved quickly, sizing him up before eyeing the surrounding area, as if looking for threats hidden in the darkness. Billy lit a short candle that rested in a brick-sized void in the wall, illuminating the small alcove where his 'source' hid.

"This here is Gladys, ole friend of mine from Kent. Brought her back with me when I got your broadcast through the network. Found her in a community house, scarcely saying a sane word, only speaking of the devil and his fallen angels." Billy sat on the ground, pulling a candy bar from his pocket, the pile of cloth and mismatched garments named Gladys watching the snack in Billy's hands with great interest.

"Look 'ere, love, tell me mate what you told me, about the devil and his angels." Billy broke off a small piece of the chocolate bar, holding it out to the pile of dust and cloth, and a narrow hand darted out, snatching the piece, retreating quickly. "Tell Sherlock about the night you saw Lucifer and the bleeding angel."

"I saw the devil." She—_feminine voice, American or Canadian accent—_nibbled on the small piece, words hushed. "He carried an angel, covered in blood."

"What was he doing, with his wounded angel?" Another question, another piece of chocolate.

"Walking…. Walking from the darkness, an angel in his arms."

"Details, love, or I'll be eating this chocolate on my own," Billy chided, and he brought the bar up to his mouth, as if to take a bite.

"Okay! It was night, no moon. Lucifer had come before, always in the dark, to where I slept at night. He never saw me, or he'd take me too." Gladys whined, hand creeping out from under the garments that hid her body, nails long and broken, packed with dirt and capped on frightfully thin fingers. Sherlock could not tell her age, or really discern what she looked like, her features and body too laden by dirt and the trappings of her basic existence to be deduced.

"Start from the beginning," Sherlock asked, and she flinched back, cowering.

"Do as he says now, and start at the beginning." Billy offered a larger piece of chocolate, and she took it, nearly too fast to see.

"It was after the world ended," Gladys said, speaking between delicate bites.

"The world ended?" Sherlock asked Billy, crouching down along the opposite wall of the alcove, minimizing his size so as not to startle the excitable Gladys.

"Gladys was a sales rep for an international company of some kind about fifteen years ago. Had a husband, kids, the whole gilded lifestyle sold in magazines. She traveled between the States and Europe often, usually a few times a month. She was in the Netherlands on business when her family was in a car crash. All of them died," Billy informed him, offering another piece to the woman buried under her past and pain. She seemed oblivious to Billy's words, so intent on the chocolate she didn't react at all. "Apparently she went off her rocker as the Americans say, had a mental break. She went missing for a week before the authorities found her in a homeless community, and sent her home to Kent where she'd been living with her family. She didn't stay, buried the lot of them, and disappeared….sort of."

"The Netherlands?" Sherlock said, staring at the woman. "Were you in Amsterdam?" Gladys nodded, and went back to nibbling. "Is that where you saw the devil carrying the wounded angel?"

"Wasn't wounded," Gladys said sharply, sending him a glare, the chocolate finished. "Angel was dead."

"Dead? How do you know?" Sherlock asked as Billy offered her more of the treat. She took it, and seemed to relax.

"Throat was cut, ear to ear. She was killed in Heaven, and fell to Earth. Lucifer must have found her, and was taking her to Hell to be punished." Sherlock rolled his eyes at the nonsense, but understood what she was saying under the mythology. She must have seen a man carrying a woman he'd killed, most likely in the process of dumping the body.

"Tell me more?" Sherlock asked, Billy offering the last of the bar. "What did the devil look like?"

"Devil looked like Lucifer," Gladys stated calmly, "just like you do."

"She's right- you've been called the devil plenty of times mate," Billy snickered, and Sherlock glared at him.

"I've been called worse," Sherlock said, and looked back at Gladys. "Can you tell me more?"

"Always in shadows, so dark, like the night followed him. Handsome devil. Dark and tall. Never saw his face." Sherlock restrained himself from pointing out that she couldn't know he was handsome if she never saw his face. She went on, oblivious to her accidental wit and the contradiction in her recounting. "Saw the angel clearly enough…. Fresh from Heaven she was, naked and torn. Blood soaked brown hair, and pretty and young. Must have been teasing mortal boys, to be so badly punished."

"Possibly... Did you see what he did with her?" Sherlock asked, hoping to distract her from the last bite of chocolate left in her hands. She looked at him like he was the crazy one, eyes wide.

"Fed her to a demon."

"A demon?" Sherlock felt a thrill of excitement. Demon… or a monster?

"Stone demon, gnashing of teeth and sword-like claws. Lucifer gave the angel to the demon, and left. Went back to Hell, took her soul with him."

"Of course he did," Sherlock murmured, lost in thought. It sounded like his man, the demon a statue or picture of some kind, most likely of a mythical creature Gladys' warped mind twisted to that of a demon, and the killer was probably leaving her body at a preselected site, which explained Gladys' claim that she'd seen him before that night. If she was missing for a week before the authorities found her, then the killer had a short time frame devoted to his kills. Quick, efficient, and highly intelligent, to have been following the same pattern for so long and remaining unnoticed by Interpol or the local police in his hunting grounds.

"Where was the demon?" Sherlock dared one last question, the snack long gone.

"Where all dead things go," Gladys said, huddling under her pile of cloth, eyes shutting. Snores came out from the rags, and Sherlock stood from his crouch, muscles complaining at the time spent in that one position and the damp environment.

"A cemetery, then," Sherlock whispered, and he stood in the small alcove as the candle sputtered and died, leaving them in darkness.

* * *

><p><strong>Jan. 16<strong>**th**

**Hyde Park**

**9:00 PM**

"Is that all of it? Sure you haven't forgotten anything?" Jim asked sarcastically, standing on the spread out canvas sheet, the canvas bag at his feet and the psychopath up in the gazebo, inspecting every surface minutely. He was impatient to be going—his people would be secure in their positions around the stone building for another thirty minutes, and they needed to be gone by then.

"I believe I've seen to everything, but…." Sherrin said as he walked down the canvas sheet where it was draped over the steps, Sherrin gathering the end behind him as he came.

"But?"

"I seem to have a problem I need to sort out."

"What?" Jim looked around, not seeing anything of note, the older man seemingly over cautious in his search for random trace evidence, so he didn't know what Sherrin was talking about. He was oblivious right up until Sherrin came within arm's reach, and suddenly he was caught up in a tight embrace, his mouth captured in a bruising kiss.

He opened for Sherrin's tongue, the strong muscle owning his mouth, swallowing his gasping moan as the blood-painted man took what he wanted. Sherrin lifted his mouth, one hand buried in Jim's hair, pulling back his head so his neck was vulnerable to teeth and lips. Sherrin's other hand moved down between them, working at his waistband as his teeth nipped over the mark the eldest Holmes had left earlier. Jim cried out, hands resting on Sherrin's naked shoulders, torn between pushing him away, and pulling him closer.

"Such a mouth on a man so intelligent," Sherrin whispered in his ear, breath warm and sweet. Jim shivered, fingers digging into the powerful muscles under his hands. "Shall I teach you a lesson, my young Moriarty?"

"What…. What lesson?" Jim could scarcely speak, much less talk, the urge to escape the frigid winter air and their need to leave quickly buried under an aching want. Sherrin's hand breached his fly, dipping under his boxers, and Jim swallowed a soft scream as a cold hand wrapped around his cock.

He quickly hardened, despite the cold air, and Sherrin pulled him tightly to his torso, smearing blood that thawed and ran over Jim's face and neck as their body heat rose between them. He tasted blood, coppery and sharp, as Sherrin reclaimed his mouth, devouring him. He ended the kiss as quickly as he started it, spinning Jim in his arms, pulling him hard, so his back as flush against Sherrin's chest.

"The lesson, my dear boy… Is when to listen…." Sherrin whispered in his ear, hand returning to his groin, his long fingers working at his cock, hard tugs that bordered on painful. "When to speak…" Sherrin's free hand slid up Jim's chest, squeezing his neck before lifting to cover his mouth. "And when to obey…"

With those words Sherrin pushed hard at the back on Jim's knees, and he fell, falling to the canvas sheet, the large bag under his chest as the older man pressed him down. He could feel the contents of the bag digging into his chest, and he managed to get his hands under him, and he tried to lift up. A large hand slapped down on his back between his shoulder blades, pinning him, as another hand grabbed the back of his waistband, yanking his pants down his ass to his knees.

"Sherrin!" Anger battled with arousal, as Sherrin pushed hard on his back, forcing him over the bag, exposing his ass to the cold winter night. Knees worked between his, spreading his legs apart, and his boxers were gone, the cold touch of a blade cutting them free from his body. "Sherrin, I'll not be mounted in the damn park like a fucking mare!"

"Don't fail in this lesson, my dear boy, I'll only have to repeat it," Sherrin growled, and Jim was about to kick him off when a hot, wet tongue found the center of his body, piercing his tight hole.

"Aahhhhh!" Jim cried out, collapsing on the bag, all fight gone as Sherrin fucked him with his tongue. Sherrin removed his hands from his back, and spread Jim wide open, the stiff muscle working in and out of his ass, tantalizing and setting fire to the millions of nerves there at the entrance to his body.

"You're mine to mount whenever I please, James," Sherrin whispered, and Jim could barely hear him as he panted loudly, his aching and dripping cock grinding against the rough fabric of the bag under his body. "I'll fuck you however I want, whenever I want. And you'll never tell me no."

Jim tried to speak, to tell him off, but a wave of intense pleasure and pressure rolled over him as a long, thin finger pushed its way past the tight ring of muscles guarding his ass, and landed with unerring accuracy on his prostate. Jim shouted, his scream echoing through the deserted park, hips bucking as Sherrin took him to the edge again and again.

"Sherrin…..Sherrin…." he begged, hands grasping at the sheet, nails catching on the rough fabric, his hips moving on their own, as Sherrin finger-fucked him with a ruthless intensity he was certain was going to kill him.

"Yes, James?" a second finger joined the first, and Jim moaned, unable to think or speak. "What do you want?"

Sherrin stretched him, utterly without mercy, readying his ass, dipping in and out knuckle-deep, over and over, driving him mad. He tried thrusting back on the hand that was fucking him, wordlessly demanding more, but Sherrin's free hand landed on his waist, holding him still. Frustration drove him to speak, unaware of how he found the right words to ask for what he needed.

"Please.. Sherrin….."

"Yes?" Harder now, three fingers breaching his hole. Sherrin swiped them over that little bundle of nerves, sending excruciating pleasure shooting through his whole body.

"Mount me, dammit! Please!" Jim screamed, voice cracking, tears running freely from his eyes, seeking release as his hips tried to move.

"There's a lesson well learned, seems you were paying attention."

Suddenly, his fingers were gone, and Jim sobbed, achingly empty, and he jerked as Sherrin worked his hand and arm under him, digging through the bag. Jim paid no attention, lost in his want, but he heard the snick of a bottle opening, and the very cold, thick drops of lubricant slid down his crack.

"Please…" he begged again, lifting his hips, Sherrin's warm and wet hands coming to rest on his waist.

"Such a quick student….." and Sherrin took him.

Thick, hard, and long, Sherrin's cock stretched him wide as he thrust in, bottoming out in one smooth motion. One of Sherrin's arms wrapped under his, and lifted his upper body off the bag, pulling them both to their knees, Jim's head falling back to rest on Sherrin's chest. He was sitting on Sherrin's thighs, his own legs spread open, knees bent, exposed to the cold air and his lover's gaze, reduced to a helpless, wanting, desperate desire.

Sherrin began to thrust, short, deep jerks of his hips, never withdrawing completely, the broad head swiping over the magic spot deep in Jim's ass. Jim didn't fight the cries that each thrust drove past his lips, or the tears of pleasure that ran freely from his eyes. Sherrin's other hand smoothed over his hip, and grabbed his aching cock, stroking him off in time with his movements, in perfect sync.

The hand that held him tightly to Sherrin rose over his chest, still fully clothed, the other man completely naked, and that image drove him wild, needy cries filling the night air. Jim lifted his hands and wrapped them back behind him, nails digging into Sherrin's taut thighs as he kept thrusting, spearing deep, and Sherrin moaned, cock swelling.

Jim was close, and he blinked the freezing tears away, looking up at the inky black sky as Sherrin stroked his cock faster, tighter, driving his own thick length into Jim as hard as he could. Jim came with a harsh cry, and Sherrin angled his cock down towards the canvas sheet, thick ropes of white fluid landing with heavy splats. Sherrin roared his own release, cock swelled up in Jim's sore ass, as the bigger man rapidly bent him back over on his knees, thrusting hard and fast as he took Jim deep, bottoming out on each thrust. Jim sobbed as he felt the burning wet heat fill him, throbbing several times as Sherrin held him down.

Sherrin collapsed on top of him, both men breathing hard, sweat chilling fast. Sherrin was still semi hard and buried in his ass, but Jim knew better than to complain. His lover would move when he wanted, and no sooner.

Minutes passed before Sherrin finally pulled out and got up, dragging Jim to his feet with one arm. Jim was incapable of coherent thought or action, so he let the older man strip him down to his socks, putting his clothing in the bag. Jim shivered in the cold air, as Sherrin pulled out from his bag of tricks a fresh set of Jim's clothing.

"One would think you planned this little diversion in the park." Jim giggled, and let Sherrin dress him like a doll, boots and pants and suit jacket and all.

"Perhaps. Now stand over there, and be quiet."

Jim did as instructed, and he watched as Sherrin withdrew clothing of his own, dressing on the sheet, before wrapping everything up and stuffing it into the bag. He felt lightweight and free, heart thrumming at a delightful pace, the wind and the damp cold not as daunting. His whole body tingled, and Jim realized with a start that he felt as if he just planned the perfect crime, and got away clean as a whistle.

Sherrin took his arm, and guided him away from the artful tableau of death behind them. It was sublime, as was how he was feeling, and once Jim's part in the grand scheme went off tomorrow morning, then the last twenty four hours would indeed be perfection.


	62. Raising the Devil

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but he owns me.**

**A/N: Thanks to Silvereyedbitch, she is essential to my process. I can't do this without her.**

**Apologies for the excessive wait. Real life is a bitch. Hope you all enjoy!**

**WARNING: Sex, blood, crime scenes. **

**Read, enjoy, review!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 62<strong>

"_**Raising the Devil"**_

**18 Years Ago**

**The North Sea**

"Jimmy, what is it?" Jaime hissed loudly, clutching to the rocks. They were dangerous, and Jim sent his sister a glare as she made to join him.

"Jaime, I swear I will lock you in a closet for the rest of your life if you don't stay back!" Jim shouted, a wave crashing around his lower legs as he navigated the black rocks. They were slippery, and if he was having trouble staying upright on the slick rocks, then his little sister would have an even harder time than he.

He heard Jaime grumble, but she sat back down, above him where the cliff side trail met the hidden dock nestled at the base of the smuggler's cove. There was something in the black water, something that drew his gaze. The night sky above was brighter than the water below, and his hands and feet were numb from the cold. The object was large, and bobbed with the currents. A wave rolled in, and just as Jim was reaching for whatever it was, it was neatly lifted and deposited at his feet, as if by Fate.

Jim grabbed the man's collar, immediately recognizing the form for what it was, what he was, and yanked hard. Another wave came and helped him, his thirteen year old body whip-thin and lean, not yet muscled enough to manage pulling the large man from the water on his own.

Small, nimble hands clamped down on the sodden cloth next to his own, and Jim glared as his little sister pulled with him, the two of them managing to get the man free from the waves. She gave him a cheeky grin, and stepped back from the man's body as Jim rolled him to his back. She went back to peering at the end of the dock, the bigger man making her nervous, even disabled.

A knife was embedded in his upper chest, and Jim's mind instantly cataloged the injuries. The man had been stabbed, the blade perfectly positioned to cut the subclavian vein under the clavicle, missing the artery. It would have bled copious amounts anyway, as evidenced by the stains that even the saltwater could not erase.

The blade looked expensive, and Jim reached out for it, fingers closing around the hilt, intending to pull it out. It would help pay their way to Amsterdam. The stranger's clothing was finely made and appeared designer, haute couture and tailored to fit him. The wristwatch and cuff links were gold and silver, and the tie clip had a diamond winking in the destroyed silk. This man was wealthy, and Jim was glad for it, since whatever the dead man had on him Jim was planning to take.

A hand, skin white and cold, with powerful fingers, snapped closed around his wrist, and Jim froze, lifting his eyes. His gaze met that of the man's, still alive, water glistening on his fair skin, dripping from his sodden black hair. Water ran from his mouth as his head turned to the side, and the moonlight lit upon his eyes, allowing Jim to see their amethyst glow. He'd never seen a pair of eyes so bright, so clear, so distinct and blazingly unique. The man coughed, water escaping his mouth, and his eyes closed briefly.

Jim's fingertips brushed over the handsome brow of the injured man, and his eyes slowly opened, the jewel-tone orbs finding his again. Jim shivered, not from the cold or frigid waters, but from the way the man seemed to see deeply into his mind, discerning his thoughts. There was intelligence there, a fire that burned brightly, calling to the banked embers in Jim's soul.

"Jimmy! The boat is coming!" Jaime called, and Jim looked up to see his little sister standing on the end of the dock, waving to the approaching boat that was barely visible in the darkness, running lights out.

Their ride to Amsterdam, their escape from the UK was here, and yet Jim could barely make himself care. He heard the boat cut its engines as it coasted to the dock, Jaime's piping voice greeting the men who jumped free. He heard all of this but saw none of it, his mind and eyes arrested by the stranger by which he knelt. That hand was still wrapped around his wrist, and beautiful violet eyes held his own captive.

"Going to Amsterdam as well, my dear boy?" the man gasped, voice low and gravelly, stirring Jim's nerves, his blood heating. He nodded, and the man smiled, an expression that left Jim breathless.

"Good….seems I made my boat after all. So much for interfering little brothers…."

* * *

><p><strong>Mycroft's Townhouse—London<strong>

Violet stared hard at the glittering obsidian floor of the holographic interface, the generators humming from hidden spots around the room. She ran her fingers over the silver bands on her wrists, and breathed in deeply, searching for the courage to do what she must. She couldn't afford to hide anymore from her past. She knew all about her mother, the type of person she had been before cancer took her. Kind, witty, generous, intelligent and brave.

Violet had always considered her mother brave. And now that she knew exactly what, or rather who her mother was running from all those years before her father died, Violet was never more proud to be the daughter of Evangeline Hunter.

Now she needed to know about her father. She was the daughter of two people, and half of herself was still unknown.

"Access files under Holmes, Sherrinford," Violet spoke loudly enough for the mics to pick up her instructions, lifting her head and staring into the shadows.

"_Vocal patterns identified for Hunter, Violet. Password required for restricted files,"_ intoned a sterile robotic voice, coming out of nowhere from all around her, the bunker echoing. For some reason the voice reminded her of Sherlock, and she shivered.

"Password for restricted files is Brother Mine."

A roll of thunder pealed through the room, and lights spawned in the shadows. Lasers sought out and landed on her wrists, and Violet raised her hands, the lights following.

"_Files for Holmes, Sherrinford accessed," _replied the computer, and Violet took another breath, holding it, and strove for courage.

"Display all files," she whispered, and the truth bloomed in bright, colorful images in the dark, throwing light over the floor and across her body.

The face that rose from the darkness matched the man from her dreams. He was clearer, more defined, the hard planes of his face and the inky black waves of his hair so realistic she lifted her hand to touch his cheek. Her fingers fell through the lights, and she felt nothing, but a chill settled in her bones. She pulled back her hands, and hugged herself, her bravado rapidly fleeing.

"Father," she gasped, and tears came unbidden. She cried, as files opened, one after another, and videos played, all hanging in the air several feet off the floor.

Violet raised shaking hands, and stepped around the profile picture of her father. His eyes, _her eyes,_ glowed with a vibrancy that disturbed her more than anything she had ever experienced in her varied life. He seemed to track her, hollow eyes that followed her movements as she spun file after file out of the shadows.

His voice.

She heard his voice, and it nearly destroyed her.

It was merely an idle conversation over the phone with Mycroft, discussing something banal and she struggled to hear the actual words, but the mere sound of her father's rich, deep voice made her whimper, happiness and grief tearing her in two. The audio file ended, and she watched a soundless video of her father taken at a distance, walking down a street in summer, hair fluttering in the breeze. The camera zoomed in, the person filming moving through a crowd, managing to get in front of him by several yards, focusing. His features sprang into crystal-clear definition, and she felt her whole body shake in response. He looked young, and there was a charisma about him that reminded her so strongly of the way Sherlock moved that she had to see his eyes to prove that it was indeed Sherrinford and not her uncle on the video. He was graceful without being effeminate, masculine raw beauty and power. He moved as if he were dancing, every step planned and measured, no extra effort wasted in an economy of movement that she envied even as she despaired at his perfection. The video was short, and looped, and she had to force herself to look away lest she watch it forever.

She saw the blood first. It stood out, a crimson swath that colored everything around it. The bodies were torn and cut apart, laid out in horrific tableaus. The pictures were crime scene photos, clinical and impersonal, but even then with that degree of separation, the evil, the malice in each cut and laceration oozed from the pictures, falling on her shoulders and hands. She felt it all, a creeping evil that made her shudder.

Body after body, picture after picture. Proof of her heritage, of the reality of her father. The man who had loved her as a baby was a monster, an evil straight from the depths of hell, and the love she still harbored in her heart for him in return threatened to break her under its weight.

Violet didn't realize she was screaming, tears running down her cheeks, until Mycroft's hand fell to her shoulder, and her forehead dropped to rest on his chest. She quieted, sobbing softly, biting back her cries of denial. She had known in her head that her father was a killer, but to see the proof of it, the actual aftermath of his bloodlust, was enough to break through the hardened shell of the armor she carried and leave her raw and bleeding.

"You lasted longer than I thought you would," he murmured, and there was a soft click, and the lights fell. Violet collapsed into her uncle's arms, crying, horrified, unable to lose the images running behind her eyelids.

* * *

><p><strong>Sherrinford's Townhouse<strong>

**The Next Morning**

Sherrinford opened his eyes to nothing. No light, no glimmer or hint of anything except unrelenting black. He could have been cast off in the abyss if not for the warmth of the body next to him and a lean arm wrapped around his waist.

James may cry and whine and pout, as spoiled as any sociopath could ever be, but when the darkness crept into the places they dwelled, and exhaustion took him over, the younger man invariably ended up plastered to Sherrin's side or back. Sherrin blinked the sleep out of his eyes and turned his head, able to see a faint glow of steel gray light through the bed curtains. Dawn was coming, and soon.

James' part in their plans would happen any moment, setting off a chain of events that would occupy and divide their opponents further, until both Mycroft and Sherlock were exactly where they wanted them to be. Steps from retribution, and then dead.

He reached out with his free arm, and swept the curtains open a sliver with the back of his hand, and saw the light of a new dawn seeping past the heavy drapes that adorned the tall windows in his master suite. It shared the same level of the house as his studio, no wall between him and his artwork, the bed tucked away in a dark recessed corner. He could see the pedestal where Cassandra was returning to life in perfect, unblemished glory.

His studio was guest-free for the moment, until he went out again tonight to find his final muse. Then to begin his work, fueled by visions of smooth skin, generous smiles, and luscious youth reduced to bleeding, raw flesh. As he carved them into the wood, his muses would reign over his studio in stately displays, for him to touch and feel and adore, each one coming to life in new ways.

Sherrin looked at the young man sleeping on his shoulder, James' face unlined and carefree in sleep, appearing wholly innocent. It was deceptive, the peace that came with slumber, and Sherrin wasn't fooled by the lack of malice present on his lover's features. James Moriarty was a dangerous man, his flights of genius matched by a capriciousness that left colleagues and foes on edge. It took a strong hand and a stronger will to bend James enough to follow another's lead, and Sherrin was no stranger to managing the last son of the Moriarty clan. He'd been doing it since the day they'd met, nearly twenty years before.

He slid slowly from the bed, and James moved in his slumber to the warm spot he'd been laying, burying his face in his pillow. Naked, he padded over the thick rug, swiping his mobile from the desk as he went to the window. Six fifty-seven AM. Three minutes left until it began. Sherrin opened the drape just enough to look out over the rooftops, towards the heart of London, and waited.

A chime went off, loud in the heavy quiet of the bedroom, and Sherrin let the drape fall closed as he returned to the bed. It sang in his hand, and James stirred as he got closer. One eye opened, dark and sleepy, and latched on to the mobile alerting in Sherrin's grip. He tapped the icon and the alarm went silent, and James grinned drowsily as he rolled to his back.

"Couldn't wake me for the show?" James asked, voice rough from sleep and their late night activities. Sherrin had kept James awake well into the early morning hours, taking him again and again. James was a screamer and held nothing back when reduced to his base passions. Sherrin hadn't been able to resist the urge to tame him, taking him harder each time.

"Can't see anything from here. Buildings are too tall. But I'm sure we'll hear the sirens soon." Sherrinford slipped back into bed, James immediately returning to his side, wrapping his warm, smooth and naked body around his much cooler frame. "Careful, my dear boy, or we'll be late."

"Then you shouldn't have gotten back in bed without clothes on," James whispered, disappearing under the covers, hands following his hot little mouth as he bit and nibbled his way down Sherrin's abdomen.

Sherrin lifted his arms and put his hands behind his head on the pillow, sighing in pleasure as James' hand braced his hips, and his wet mouth sucked Sherrin's semi hard cock nearly to the back of his throat. He hardened to full arousal fast, and thrust up just as James sucked Sherrin down to the root of his cock, throat muscles swallowing around the swollen head. James coughed, and the hand Sherrin buried in his hair encouraged him to keep going.

He closed his eyes, basking in the wet, hot suction, hips lifting just a bit off the mattress in a steady rhythm, sliding his hard cock past the lips stretched wide around him. He was too tired to fuck the other man's mouth, having taken James repeatedly in the night, so he enjoyed the slow, languorous blowjob. James hummed as he sucked, throat working around the crown, tongue massaging the thick vein underneath. He had such a clever mouth on him.

He was nearing his climax when the first wail of emergency responders could be heard past the curtains. He brushed the blankets off of James, lifting his head and watching as the younger man swallowed his release. His eyes were closed as he swallowed mouthful after mouthful, and Sherrin felt his hips jerk and a wet heat flow against his leg as the master criminal came hard. Sherrin dropped his head, vision blurring, breathing hard, slowly relaxing his fingers in the long brown hair under his hand. James rested his head on his hip, panting, and they both were trying to find their faculties when the sirens grew louder, blasting past the townhouse.

James began to laugh, softly, his body shaking a few times before the peal of his laugh flew free from his mouth. He collapsed on his back on the soft bed, staring up at the ceiling, holding his stomach, laughing so hard he was crying. Tears ran down his cheeks, and he was gasping for air, his laughter on the razor's edge of madness and glee. Sherrin smiled indulgently, and carefully extricated his legs from the blankets, getting out of bed. He left the younger man a hysterical mess on his bed, heading for the shower, James' laughter subsiding to devilish giggles.

* * *

><p><strong>The same morning… Ten Minutes Prior<strong>

**Ministry Of Justice, Westminster**

"Good job in there, Boss. I don't think they'll be breathing fresh air for the next few decades," Sally Donovan cheered as she slapped his shoulder, both of them exiting the Ministry of Justice off of Perry France Broadway. They'd gone in that morning early to give closed testimony on a case they'd finished several months prior over the summer, and Greg was glad he was well enough to do his job and keep the bank-robbing bastards behind bars. It was very early, and most people were just now arriving at the Ministry as they were leaving.

It was a busy morning, dozens of people on the street, black cabs descending in swarms along the sidewalk, disembarking passengers filling the curb. There were reporters everywhere, not making things any easier, the Mallory Family bank-robbers a huge draw to the vultures and their deadlines. Greg and Sally dodged a camera crew, thankful the crowds outside the building were chaotic enough that the reporters didn't catch a glimpse of them as they headed for Mycroft's car. It was pulling up to the curb, and Greg hopped down to the street and opened the door before the driver could try and get out on the busy street.

He held the door open, grabbing Mycroft's long coat aside in his free hand so he could slide in easier. He still hadn't returned his lover's coat, and considering how good it made him look, he probably wouldn't. Sally was on the other side of the door, one of her hands on his to stop him, a smile on her lovely face. He was looking right at her when the explosion rent the air, a fireball that screamed with the voices of a thousand enraged furies. It bloomed like a tiger lily, deep oranges and lines of black, thick smoke unfurling and flames reaching out to lick across the pavement.

Beautiful death reached out, and slapped at Donovan, throwing her against the car door, before it rolled over the top of him, slamming him to the ice cold pavement with unforgiving force. A sound tore through the street, a storm of high-pitched shrieking, the tearing of metal and the shattering of glass a cacophony so horrendous it could have come from the throats of a flight of dragons.

He woke up, head ringing, ears deafened, blood dripping in his eyes.

"Sir! Can you hear me? DI Lestrade, can you hear me?"

Greg gazed up, blinking slowly, and tried to focus on the face of the man above him. His ears were behaving oddly, popping in and out, the words muffled and alternately clear. He was hot, but portions of him were freezing, his back and hips numbing from the chill.

"What?" Greg coughed, and that started a chain reaction, his whole body convulsing as his muscles came back to life. Sounds were louder, the air colder, the scents of fire and ozone and blood smothering. Greg rolled to his side, then pulled up his knees, hands flat on the glass-strewn pavement as an incessant ringing fired off between his ears.

"Oh God, what the hell happened?" Greg groaned, finally managing to sit back on his heels, hands coming to his chest and side. He felt like a ton of bricks decided to barrel into him, knocking him on his ass.

"Sir, you shouldn't be moving, you could have injuries…." The man at his side said, hands trying to push him back down. Greg looked up, and recognized one of Mycroft's guards, blood running from the side of his face, the hair at his temple soaked and glistening.

"I think you're worse off mate, sit down," Greg wheezed and slowly stood, and pushed his hands down on the guard's shoulders, making him fall to his ass next to the car.

Smoke trailed over the street, great swaths of it obscuring his vision, the winter wind pulling thick trails of it over the bodies that littered the curb and sidewalk. There was an eerie silence that echoed through the tall buildings, faint cries and the hiss of burning debris strangely intimate in the battlefield of the street. Greg gagged, coughing into his hand, and stumbled away from the car.

When he saw her, she didn't look like Sally Donovan. His sergeant was collapsed on the other side of the car door, which had a huge dent in it, as if a giant fist had punched it. The window wasn't shattered, just broken in a spider web of lines, which struck Greg as odd until he realized that this was Mycroft's car, and of course his car could survive a bomb blast.

His brain wasn't working right, and he thought he was worrying about the wrong things, he must be, since his sergeant was bleeding to death in front of him and his heart and mind weren't seeing just how horrible that was, at least not yet.

He dragged in a smoke-laced breath of air, and it clicked. Reality returned on a rush of sound, the tidal wave pushing him to finally react.

Greg looked down at the crumpled body, his brain screaming as his body moved, rushing to her side. He put a hand on her ribs, over her coat, and the dark material squished under the slight pressure. He pulled away his hand, and turned over his palm.

Blood, dark and thick covered his hand. It dripped from his fingers, and fell with loud splats to the ground.

Greg didn't move from her side, his body shutting down at last. He fell over just as paramedics swarmed the scene, and men in emergency gear began calling to him.

Greg let go, the black rising around the edges of his vision, and his last thought before falling unconscious was that Mycroft was going to be very upset.

* * *

><p><strong>Baker Street<strong>

**Same Morning**

Sherlock moaned, and rolled over, burying his face in the pillows as John opened the curtains. Warm light fell over his back and legs, but Sherlock was too tired to appreciate the cheerful ambiance of the morning. A chime sounded from the nightstand, and Sherlock determinedly buried his nose deeper in John's pillow, refusing to check his mobile.

He heard John walk across the floor barefoot, and the shuffling of items as the doctor presumably checked their phones. The odd beeps and clicks told Sherlock that it was his mobile and not John's that had sounded off, and Sherlock found himself prying his head off the pillow and flopping over on his side.

"You awake, love?" John smiled as him as he spoke, and Sherlock got caught up in the sincere affection in that one glance. John seemed tense, his eyes dark and worried, but Sherlock saw the love in there too. Whatever he saw in the text alert must have been bad.

"No, I'm clearly still sleeping. This is a nightmare, where my lover insists on waking me before luncheon every morning and going about as if he's actually leaving for work," Sherlock mumbled as he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. If John wanted to avoid the bad news, he would oblige. Sherlock was good at ignoring things he didn't want to deal with.

John chuckled, not at all upset, and tossed Sherlock's mobile gently onto his lap. "I'm not going to work today. Neither are you, actually."

"What? Work? I don't work, I solve cases other people are too idiotic to unravel," Sherlock picked up his mobile and peered at the screen.

**Bombing at Ministry of Justice. Roads are shut down, London is under high alert. I'm with Mycroft, travel restricted to emergency personnel only. Stay home. –VH**

Sherlock blinked himself fully awake, pondered, then replied.

**Am I needed? –SH**

A heartbeat, then his niece replied.

**I already asked Mycroft if he needed you. Said it's not in your milieu, whatever the fuck that means. I'm guessing terrorism, straight up sleeper cell shit. –VH**

Occasionally Sherlock was reminded that his niece, while entirely British by blood and birth, was raised as an American, and her upbringing was never more prevalent than in times of stress. Her language, while entirely irrelevant to him, was irregular enough to warrant a small smile.

**Good. I'm going back to sleep. Avoid further bombings. –SH**

**I'll do my best. Enjoy your lie-in. –VH**

Sherlock was about to throw away the mobile when she sent another text.

**Get over your squabble with Mycroft. He made me check with John that you were both at home and safe. I love you. –VH**

Not finding a suitable reply and knowing his niece would ignore him if he sent anything pithy, Sherlock tossed his mobile back on the nightstand. John was coming out of the bathroom, freshly washed and dressed.

"I'm watching the telly for news on what's happening. I texted Lestrade, but I got nothing in reply, I'm guessing he's busy with the Ministry bombing. Go back to sleep, love, I'll wake you when breakfast is ready," John said calmly, belying the shadows in his deep blue eyes. The soldier was there, haunting the evening-sky eyes of his lover, and Sherlock sighed.

"Already awake. Do we have any milk?" Sherlock tossed back the covers and stumbled into the bathroom, reconciling himself to being awake at the god-awful time of 0730 in the morning.

* * *

><p><strong>Downtown London<strong>

**Mycroft's Townhouse and Car—St Bart's**

"Sir, his guards say he's alright," the aide yelped as Mycroft barreled past him, Violet on her uncle's heels. Breakfast was over.

"He was just in an explosion, you idiot, he's not 'alright!'" Mycroft yelled back, and the aides in his way scampered in every direction.

Violet rolled her eyes, and followed her uncle, who was shouting orders and asking questions that none of the aides could answer.

There had just been a bombing at the Ministry of Justice, and instead of her uncle, the one man in the entire country who should be getting per the second updates about what was happening, getting fed that information, he was left adrift, and yelling at aides.

Violet missed Anthea with a violent pang, and she knew in that second what she should do. She could almost feel Anthea standing at her shoulder, whispering in her ear, a delicate hand resting on her back. Violet ached, a fierce throb in her gut, as the scent of fruit and lilac rose around her in the foyer. She shook her head, dispelling the ghosts, and made a choice.

Violet pulled out her cell, never gladder in this moment that she carried her toys everywhere she went. Mycroft was in fine form, shouting orders to aides who looked frazzled and at a loss, and none of them were giving him what he needed to know. His car wasn't even ready yet, and they needed to go.

Violet let herself in directly to MI6, her cell seamlessly blending with the information she needed. She had backdoors written into the code for all the UK's major government entities, and some were even legit, seeing as how she gave Mycroft the Kingdom Key for Christmas.

"Mycroft!" she shouted, and everyone shut up, frozen, staring at her. Mycroft spun to her, seething, seconds from snapping.

"Greg is at St Bart's, got there two minutes ago. Unconscious, but no major injuries. The bombs—there were four of them—went off at exactly 0700 hours. Main devices were anti-personnel VIEDs and IEDs filled with ball bearing and glass beads. Over a hundred casualties, as of this moment there are ten dead on scene. No suspects as of yet identified," Violet tapped on her screen and nodded to the front door behind her uncle. "The car is ready now, let's go."

She walked past the useless aides, and grabbed Mycroft's arm as she passed him, tugging him out the door. He followed for a second, and he appeared shocked, eyeing her like he'd never seen her before.

She pushed him into the car, and as the door shut, she leaned forward, speaking to the driver.

"St Bart's. Now." The driver nodded, the Jaguar pulled away from the townhouse, two escort cars in front and back.

Mycroft was still staring, but she was too busy to care. She tapped at her cell, and started to sort through the information on the screen.

"I've raised the terror alert level. The royals and PM are on lock down. The airports, train stations, bus and taxi centers have all been notified. Heathrow is shut down 'til authorities have cleared it. I've dispatched city authorities to search and clear all high-priority targets. London is on lockdown until you lift it, all traffic restricted to emergency personnel. So far all terrorist communications are being monitored and suspected members of terrorist organizations are going through a headcount, and contacts from the last seventy hours are being combed for clues," Violet recited, and sat back, taking a breath.

"All upper level members of MI6 and other ministry officials are being notified…right now," she murmured, and flipped through her screens, tapping here and there, sifting through the data streaming by at high speeds. "I've ordered a thorough review of all CCTV feeds from the last forty-eight hours outside the Ministry of Justice. And…. The Prime Minister will be making a public address later this evening, but will wait until he hears from you."

Silence.

Violet took a deep breath, and looked up at the man sitting quietly beside her. Gone was the angry and frantic lover, the government man frustrated by lack of information. She saw only her uncle, who was watching her with an expression she had never seen on his face before.

There was pride in his eyes, with a vulnerable edge to it that she felt as well. There was a ghost in the car with them, of a woman recently departed. Violet could smell the hints of perfume, and held her breath. It faded, and she could breathe again.

She quirked a brow at him, and went back to her cell, syncing it to her uncle's. His mobile chimed in his coat pocket, and he moved carefully as if he might break, pulling it out. She sent him organized and structured data bursts, and together, as the cars wove through London towards the hospital, they worked together, not a word spoken.

* * *

><p><strong>St Bart's Hospital <strong>

**Emergency**

**0800 AM**

"Sally Donovan, Sergeant, Metropolitan Police Service at NYS. Admitted ten minutes ago… She's two stations down!" the nurse called out as Greg took off down the hall, Mycroft's guard at his elbow yelling at him to stop. He dodged patients and medical staff, the hospital a beehive of activity. St Bart's had received the bulk of the victims from the bombing site, and Sally was in here somewhere. He'd woken up a few minutes before, a doctor shining a bright light in his eyes and asking stupid questions about how he was feeling. He was just in the middle of an explosion, he was feeling _wonderful._

Greg ignored the pain in his head and the ache in his body and skidded to a stop just as Sally was wheeled out of a cubicle on a gurney in front of him. She was surrounded by doctors and people in scrubs, and she was stripped, covered in blood-soaked bandages and connected to tubes and fluid bags. Greg grabbed the arm of a scrub-clad nurse, who was gloved and covered in blood.

"She's my sergeant, what's wrong with her?" Greg snarled, pulling the male nurse in close, inches separating them. The younger man quailed and swallowed hard, face blanching. "Is she going to be okay?"

"She…. She has several pieces of shrapnel embedded in her side and back. She's being taken to surgery now. She needs some transfusions, but she is currently stable, sir," the nurse stammered, and Greg threw him away, making the man stumble and flee.

"DI Lestrade, please come back to your room," the bodyguard asked again, hesitating to touch his arm, afraid of finding himself laid out on the floor.

Greg put a hand to his head, and sighed. He wanted to stay here, and wait, but the place was overflowing with the wounded, and he was in the way. A hand landed on his shoulder, and Greg whirled, ready to tell off the bodyguard.

"Gregory," Mycroft said his name, gently, and Greg sucked in a deep breath, ribs aching, ready to fall over.

"Mycroft," Greg exhaled, and he flung himself into his lover's arms. Greg clung to Mycroft, and let himself finally stop being strong.

"I've got you," Mycroft whispered, and hands rubbed over his shoulders and back, soothing. "Come with me Gregory. Come with me now."

Greg let himself be led away, and through the emergency ward to a quieter part of the hospital. He found himself sitting on a bed, and female doctor cleaning his face and helping him out of his shirt. His clothes were full of metal bits and pieces, and small shards of glass. No wonder he was so uncomfortable. Mycroft stayed within arm's reach, speaking softly to someone. Greg blinked, his thoughts slowly working themselves back into some kind of order.

"Violet?"

"Hey bud," she said, giving him a small smile. She was dressed in the same clothes as the day before, and Greg remembered Mycroft telling him that she was spending the night. Her clothes were freshly pressed and she looked rested, but for a haunted look in her lovely eyes.

"You okay, sweetheart?" he asked, wincing as the doctor used a pair of tweezers to pull glass out of his hairline.

"Am I okay? Fuck, Greg, you were just blown up," she said, clicking away on her mobile. She gave him a bigger smile, a quick one, and went back to her phone. "I think between the two of us you're winning in the bad day category."

"That I am….What the fuck happened?" Greg asked, looking directly at his lover. Mycroft was holding his hand, the room they were in closed off, the curtains pulled shut. The ubiquitous aides were absent, and yet Mycroft was one of the few people in the country who shouldn't be kept in the dark about what was happening in the city at the moment. Greg felt adrift, and looked back at Violet, feeling a nauseating sense of déjà vu just laying eyes on her.

Another woman used to behave like that. Used to be so focused on her mobile that the rest of the world fell away, and she would look up with knowing eyes and a dry wit, thinking the world was full of fools and only a few were worth the fuss.

"Got a new job?" Greg asked wryly, and Violet met his eyes for a second before the amethyst orbs lit on her uncle.

"I think this addition to MI6 shall remain unnoted by my peers, Gregory," Mycroft said, looking at the doctor still poking about in Greg's hair.

"X-rays and a new set of clothing. I'm going to suggest a shower as soon as possible so you get all the glass shards off of you," the doctor said, picking up on the undercurrents in the room and putting down her tools. "You don't need stitches, but you may have a mild concussion. I'll get you some pain meds. Be right back."

"I've texted Molly, she said you can use the showers off the autopsy lab. I have an aide bringing you a change of clothes as we speak, should be here once you've washed off." Violet told him, and she slipped from the room on the doctor's heels, shutting the door firmly behind her.

"Mycroft…" Greg started to say, but his lover's mouth landed on his and he found himself pulled off the bed and into Mycroft's arms. Mycroft kissed him deeply with an urgency that left him breathless, hands framing his face, holding him still, and Greg groaned, opening his mouth to the sensual assault.

"I can put you under guard…." Mycroft whispered before his lips took his again, nipping and licking, "I can have you followed and shadowed by the best in the business…" Mycroft's teeth nipped at his jaw, and laving the spot with his tongue, "I can know where you are at all times and where the safest place is for you to be…." Hands tugged on Greg's shirt and long hot fingers traveled underneath, caressing his sides, "but with all that I can do, I can't stop you from walking into the middle of a bloody bombing."

Mycroft was attacking him with mouth and hands, pushing his ass back on the edge of the bed, knees knocking his legs apart and stepping in between. Greg submitted, opening himself up to his lover, Mycroft's need so urgent he couldn't find the ambition to resist.

"Darling….." Greg tilted his head back, as Mycroft tugged at his shirt, opening his collar, "Darling, we're in the middle of the hospital…"

"No one is going to come in here….. I want to taste you…" Mycroft said huskily, and when his lover dropped to his knees on the tile floor, Greg nearly swallowed his tongue, "need to taste you. Mine, Gregory….say it…"

"I'm yours, all yours darling…" Greg gasped as his zipper was carefully opened by skillful fingers, which slipped inside the folds and under his boxers.

_I should get blown up more often….._

* * *

><p><strong>Baker Street<strong>

**Morning**

"Bombings in London," John muttered, holding the remote and flicking through channels, the same thing on every one of them.

He stopped on BBC, and watched the footage from the CCTV cameras. Someone had leaked the footage to the press, and this was the millionth time that morning that John had watched as the bombs exploded. Four bombs, along the street in front of the Ministry, going off within nanoseconds of each other, the flashes and concussive waves so fast that John saw the aftermath of them more than the actual explosions.

John sent a glance to the right, his eyes wandering over his lover's long frame, slouched decadently in his leather chair. Sherlock was reading a case file, tossing out random pieces of paper from the folder that he deemed worthless. There was already a large, scattered collection of white paper littering the floor around his chair, making it appear a windstorm had blown through their flat. He watched, biting his lip so as not to laugh, as Sherlock gave a faint flicker of his brow and tossed another piece of paper over his shoulder, mumbling about inept crime scene technicians.

John smiled, despite the gloomy news, and found himself sucked back into the news cycle, the bombs exploding over and over. He really hoped that Mycroft figured out what happened and who was responsible, and stopped more attacks before they happened. Part of him was surprised that the bombings that morning even happened, especially after Violet's gift to Mycroft for Christmas. She'd told them about the Key not long after she'd given it to her uncle, and John was still feeling uneasy thinking about the insane level of knowledge Violet had access to. Access that she'd then given to Mycroft.

The news started to repeat again, and John grew tired of watching. It was too similar to another cold day a few years prior, with a madman setting off bombs to entice Sherlock into playing his Game…..

"Sherlock?" John said softly, rolling his head on the seatback to look at his lover. Sherlock was still reading, one bare foot rotating on the other where his ankles were crossed, the detective stretched out in an extreme slouch.

"Hhhmmm?" Sherlock kept on reading, quicksilver eyes darting over the papers in hand, reading faster than John figured he could think.

"Is Moriarty really alive?" It just came out; John sat frozen as his own words brought the reality of Sherlock's and Violet's epiphanies to light. It was just over two weeks since Mary and Violet bought the theory of James Moriarty's possible survival to light, and John had been happy to not think of the madman still being out there, enjoying the comfort of denial. The morning's bombing was making it hard not to think about, and John needed to voice his worry aloud.

"Yes, he is," Sherlock answered, serene and without emotion. His face was smooth and unworried, line-free and otherworldly.

"Are you sure?" John asked, dropping the remote after muting the TV.

"He is the one who pulled me from the fire at the clinic the night his sister took you from Mycroft's townhouse," Sherlock stated, tossing another crumpled sheet of paper over his head. It fell to the floor with the faintest of impacts, and skittered to a stop under the curtains.

"You were severely injured, you could be misremembering," John said hopefully.

"I've gone back over it several times—that memory is true. It just took Violet's discovery to jar it free," his detective said, uncrossing his ankles and sitting up, hair falling over his heavenly eyes.

"Shit," John muttered, looking back at the images rushing by over the muted TV screen. "Do you think…?"

"That he is responsible for today's bombing?" Sherlock finished for him. John nodded, and Sherlock peered at him through his curls. "It is possible, but since Mycroft made it clear I'm not to be involved, I can't know for sure. I doubt it though; from what I've seen so far from the news is that its domestic terrorism."

"Did you tell Mycroft?" John leaned toward Sherlock, elbow on his knee, and reached out with his other hand to brush the curls from Sherlock's eyes.

"I sent Violet a text; she will contact me if there's anything I can help with. She needs to be subtle about it, though."

"Why?"

"Violet is now Mycroft's."

"Mycroft's what?" John asked, tracing the smooth, chiseled jawline of his lover. His skin was soft, and unblemished, John's blood heating as he enjoyed the sensation of touching his lover.

"She took Anthea's place. She wouldn't be accessing the information she has as fast as she has been, in his presence, without acting as his personal aide. I'm just surprised it took so long." Sherlock gave John slight smile, and sat back, John's fingers falling from his cheek. "Mycroft won't appreciate her sharing information with me, especially as he hasn't invited me in. So I will wait, and she will send me what she can. Then, when it becomes clear Mycroft can't solve this on his own, he will either come for me himself, or send our niece."

"It's not like you to wait to be invited in," John said, rubbing his fingertips together, missing the feel of Sherlock's skin and warmth. "You usually barge right in to the thick of things."

"It's not, no. But then I have never been at odds with Mycroft to this degree, not even as a young man still at university. I have my own case, regardless," Sherlock stated, and picked up a new file, the pictures he dropped to the floor a depressing mix of blood and gore.

"Aren't you worried about Moriarty?"

"I'm more concerned with what his sister will do, actually. And Jim will come for me, for us, when he's ready."

"Explain that, Sherlock."

"She called him her master. James Moriarty ruled his sister's life to a degree that left her with no free will, and even worse, a steadfast devotion on her part that made her snap and lose all sanity once his everyday presence in her life was gone. His faked death, and subsequent return, will leave her in a place none of us can afford for her to be." Sherlock nibbled on his lip, and John felt his body take notice. His detective was far too handsome for anyone's sanity. "If he hasn't struck by now, he may not come at us directly again. I'll keep an eye out for him, but he's more likely concerned with taming the very wrathful sibling of his."

"I don't blame her for being pissed, seems we'd have that in common," John mused, eyeing his detective sternly.

"Yes, I understand what you're getting at, "Sherlock rolled his eyes, still reading the new file. "The difference between you and the younger Moriarty is that you are saner than she."

"I'd hope so." John quipped, snorting.

"You're still a psychopath, just not as crazy as she," Sherlock intoned, waving an elegant hand near his temple, and John tossed the remote at him. Sherlock caught it easily, never once lifting his eyes from the file, making John smile. "And—I came back for you."

"What?"

"I came back from the dead for you, John. Jim Moriarty was 'dead' just as long as I was, longer now in fact, and hasn't returned to the one person he supposedly loved beyond all others. He never returned to his sister, and that was a betrayal of her devotion and loyalty. If I were Jim Moriarty, I wouldn't go within a hundred miles of my little sister," Sherlock chuckled, and picked up a picture, the glossy surface a brilliant crimson.

"Yeah, no kidding. Jaime Moriarty enraged is not something I ever want to see again," John said, flashing back to the night she destroyed two of her own guards when they attempted to rape him in the ballroom of her childhood home. After she was done, there was nothing left of them but ground up meat.

"So, my dear doctor, to summarize: Yes, James Moriarty is alive. No, I don't know what he's doing or where he is. Yes, we will see him soon, I just don't know how or in what manner. No, I don't think his sister will return to his side and service."

"How do you know? She could forgive him."

"I know because while I apologized to you for my deceit and causing you such grief and pain, James Moriarty will never do the same for his sister. He won't see anything worth apologizing for," Sherlock said, finally meeting John's eyes. "Jim will make the erroneous assumption that he can return to his old life, that nothing is changed, when everything has."

John stared at Sherlock, their eyes locked.

"And John…. I believe that Mary may have something to say about Jim Moriarty making a return to his sister's life. In fact, Miss Morstan may make her rebuttal known at gunpoint."

John breathed through his nerves, the thought of his pregnant ex-fiancée taking on Jim Moriarty enough to terrify him.

A mobile rang, and it was several seconds before John found the energy to move away from Sherlock's sharp gaze. He picked it up and swiped the screen, holding it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"John?"

"Greg, you alright? I tried calling earlier, but I figured with the bombings you would be busy," John asked, sitting up, Sherlock eyeing him intently.

"Yeah, I've been better. I was…sorta in the explosion."

"What? How can you be in an explosion?" John was nearly yelling, and Sherlock's only response to his query was to raise that single brow. "How can you get blown up and be calling me NOW?"

"I—well, I got some bumps and bruises, but…"

"What hospital are you at?" John said, getting to his feet and looking around for his shoes. "We can be there soon, if we can't drive we can walk if you're at Bart's."

"Stop! I'm fine. Banged up, but fine. That's not why I'm calling," Greg said, and John stilled. Something was wrong. "John, we need Sherlock. There's been another victim."

Sherlock must have seen something in his face, as the detective stood in one fluid movement, stripping his robe, heading for the bathroom. The file fell unnoticed to the floor, the bloody pictures arcing out in a neat fan in front of John's feet.

"John, I got the brass to send you two a car, London's still shut down. You have about twenty minutes."

"Where are we going?" John asked as he, too, headed down the hall, and into their bedroom, straight for Sherlock's wardrobe. He opened the doors, and began pulling out a black suit and Sherlock's dark red-wine shirt. Black trousers joined the clothing on the bed, and he went for socks next. Sherlock was in the bathroom cleaning up, water running in the sink.

"Hyde Park," Greg answered, sounding off. John could hear the wind in the background, the subtle hum of traffic and people talking. The DI was outside.

"We could just walk there, you know."

"Brass wants this kept quiet. You two on the streets of London in broad daylight garner too much attention." Greg huffed out a brisk laugh, then spoke again. "You two have legions of fangirls."

John groaned, and threw a pair of socks on the bed just as Sherlock strode in from the bathroom, stark naked and all lean, sexy muscle. His tongue promptly forgot how to work, and Sherlock paused midstride as he noticed John's attention.

John nearly dropped the phone as Sherlock wrapped a long arm around his waist, pulling him roughly to his chest, mouth descending in a scorching, wet, deep kiss that left no part of John's mouth unexplored. John stumbled as Sherlock let him go, a feral grin on his luscious lips, and his detective began to dress, throwing on the suit John had arranged for him. He was about to tell Sherlock he forgot to put on underpants, but the wink Sherlock tossed him let him know Sherlock was well aware he was going commando.

"John!" Greg's tiny voice came out from the phone hanging forgotten in John's slack grip, and he jumped, pulling it back to his ear.

"Sorry, I got distracted."

"From the moaning I just heard, I bet you did."

John rubbed his face, trying not to blush as Sherlock finished getting dressed, both hands working fast to align his suit collar and smooth down the indecently tight silk shirt.

"Car's ETA is fifteen minutes. Get your misbehavior out of the way before it gets there, I can't have Sherlock distracted on this case."

The line went dead, and John nodded, even though the call was over and Greg couldn't see him anyway.

He followed Sherlock out of the bedroom, eyes locked on his lover's pert ass, and it took tripping over his boots for John to remember he shouldn't be walking around London in the middle of winter in just his socks.

* * *

><p><strong>Castle Láidreacht<strong>

**Ireland**

**Same Day**

"My lady?" Clay's whisper carried on the breeze, and Jaime tore her eyes away from the frothing sea swells far out in the distance. The towering battlements of Castle Láidreacht were weathered by centuries of exposure to salt water and wind, yet remained still a formidable fortress, crouching like a dark monster on the cliffs above the sea.

Jaime heard Clay step away from the door and pad across the stone blocks, carefully placing each boot so as not to slip on the ice. He came to her side, and she saw his profile out of the corner of her eye. His hair was longer, not shorn as short as it had been during the autumn. His white and gray scarf fluttered in the sea breeze, one end caught up in the wind.

"Yes, my disciple?"

"Lady Mary wishes for you to come down. She said all your battlement wandering was making her nervous."

Jaime laughed, the sound carried on the currents of frigid air that curved around the castle.

"Nothing makes Mary Morstan nervous, Clay. And if she hears you calling her 'lady' one more time, she just might make _you _nervous."

"Having a pregnant assassin in the castle makes me nervous already. Can't get more unsettled than that."

Jaime backed away from the battlements, and entered through the stone doorway. Clay was on her heels, and together they descended into the heart of her home. The name, Láidreacht, meant strength, power, in Irish. She was fluent, thanks to her brother, and when James had bought the castle several years before, he'd asked her what she wanted to call it. He'd smirked, an arrogant slant to his narrow lips, but agreed in the end.

The castle was still Jaime's home, even after two years of living in London, a home she shared now with her lover, Mary Morstan, and her men. Her former guards, and James' mercs, were all coming home. They came by in pairs or alone; Clay vetted them, made sure their allegiances remained to the Moriarty family, to her—then they were given a place in the castle. The old servants' quarters had been revamped decades earlier into guest suites, and that's were her men lived. Not part of the main section of the castle, where Jaime, Mary and Clay lived, but on hand.

Jaime went for the heart of the castle, the courtyard. It was a favorite place of the American assassin; Mary could be found there on a daily basis. The day after their arrival at the castle, with Jaime in bed, sedated and grouchy while recovering from her gunshot wounds and her realization that her brother was alive, Mary had given up trying to keep her calm and in bed, and instead decided that Jaime needed somewhere new to rest, somewhere she wasn't reminded of her brother.

Jaime had awoken at night, in the courtyard, the chill winter air held at bay by the heavy linen and velvet drapes that enclosed the stone gazebo on the upper level of the courtyard. A roaring fire burned in the giant iron brazier in the center, and the large hammock in which she rested was big enough to comfortably hold both women. Jaime had stirred at Clay's entrance, her newly minted disciple dropping stacks of wood in the brazier, the warmth of the flames filling the large space. The smoke rose, and excited through the stone roof, in the chiseled reliefs that let thin shafts of moonlight fall over them.

Mary slept with her, porcelain skin gilded in the silver light, wrapped around Jaime gently. She felt disconnected yet safe, and Jaime saw the IV that ran from her left arm to the clear bag hanging beside the hammock. That night she'd slept easier than she'd had in a very long time, Mary slumbering peacefully beside her, Clay watching over them both.

The retreat Mary had designed for Jaime while she was recovering had been converted into a more stable and enjoyable place to relax, thick furs and rugs covering the stone floor, and heating torches in each corner. With the heating units, the drapes could be pulled back, and a view of the multi-level courtyard could be seen from the hammock. A small table and two chairs were added, and thick robes and blankets awaited use.

It was there that Mary would be this time of day, relaxing and reading a book. Mary was advancing in her pregnancy well, the gentle swell of her abdomen large on the smaller woman. When Mary grew closer to her due date, she was going to be huge. Jaime had been concerned, but the doctor she'd gotten for her lover assured her that Mary was healthy, as was her unborn daughter.

Jaime entered the courtyard, the wind obscured by the high walls, but the deep chill of the shadowed space sinking in her bones. She hurried across the flat lower level, boots ringing on the stones, and climbed the terraces the highest level of the courtyard where the gazebo sat. It was smaller version of a similar structure in one of the parks in London, and James had it built not long after acquiring the castle. Jaime never asked, as back then she was too wrapped up in his will to ever question any of his choices. It wasn't until the later years that Jaime began to use her own voice.

Clay moved ahead of her and opened the heavy curtain that served as the doorway, and the rush of heat on Jaime's cheeks made her face feel tight and flushed. They quickly entered, and Clay let the curtain fall back, sealing them in.

"There you are sweetheart. I was getting worried," Mary smiled at her from the small table, a book open in front of her and a stack of papers with a pen next to it.

"Why were you worried?" Jaime queried, taking off her thick jacket and tossing it to the hammock. Clay stood by the entrance, silent, and doing a fair job of pretending he wasn't there. She leaned down, and gave Mary a small kiss, enjoying her sweet taste before sitting across from her at the little table.

"Sweetheart, you got shot two weeks ago," Mary snorted and shook her head, flipping a page in her book.

"I've been shot before, I heal fast." Jaime peered at the book, curious. "What are you reading?"

"Baby names," Mary replied, tapping the pen on the paper. She looked up, and gave Jaime a brilliant white smile.

"Ahhhh, I see," Jaime replied, and she shrugged. She had her choices, but Mary wasn't ready to pick yet. "Speaking of baby names, your message was delivered to Baker Street. He read it."

"He did?" Mary leaned back in her chair, playing with the pen. "How did he take it?"

Jaime shrugged again, and looked at Clay.

"Captain Watson was deeply affected by the letter and the picture, ma'am." Clay was the one who delivered the letter, and apparently he'd stayed to see how it was received. "He kept it with him after he read it. I have someone watching the flat, so once he replies and puts the answer on the mantelpiece I can get it back here as soon as possible."

Jaime smiled at Mary, and pulled her knife from the thigh sheath. She tugged a whetstone and oiled rag from her back pocket, and began to tend her blade as Mary went back to reading.

"My lady?"

Clay opened the flap just enough for a guard to appear, face hesitant.

"What?" Jaime asked, emotionless. The guard eyed her warily, and handed Clay a tablet. The guard withdrew, and Clay carried it over to the table. He set it down and propped it up, and pressed Play.

BBC One news began playing, the news cycle dominated by bombings in London.

Jaime bit back a smile at the carnage on the screen, played out in Hi-Def and gorgeously destructive. She was enraptured, and returned to tending her blade as she became absorbed by the chaos.

"Clay, find out who was responsible, please," Mary said, jolting Jaime free from her daze. Her mouth felt dry, and her hands were tingling.

"Yes, ma'am. I will be right back," Clay promised before he turned on his heel and slipped from the courtyard den. Mary reached out and paused the footage, and Jaime sighed, returning her focus to the knife. She felt Mary's evaluating gaze on her, but she didn't lift her eyes, afraid to see judgment there. Jaime hadn't bombed London, not this time, but she still enjoyed the sight of her old prison burning.

The vibration of the blade on stone traveled through her fingers, and lulled Jaime into a hazy, peaceful state of mind. She was glad she hadn't thrown the knife off the cliffs, as she was sorely tempted when Mary revealed her brother's deception. There were too many memories, too many days and nights saved and ended by the blade for her to let it go.

Jaime relaxed again, the susurration of the silver and steel over the whetstone a balm to her mind and nerves. She let the images of blood and death and beautiful destruction fade away, and she sat back in her chair, the rhythm of the blade in her hands familiar and hypnotic.

* * *

><p><strong>12 Years Ago<strong>

**Amsterdam**

"Thank you, James," Jaime purred, kissing her brother's cheek as she cradled the wicked knife in her hands.

"I just knew you'd love it. I wonder who you'll try it out on first, sister dearest," James grinned, his eyes shining as she flipped the knife, the balance perfect.

"I think I might castrate the Jennings boy down the street. He was handsy the other day." Jaime giggled as the knife soared high, spinning just under the ceiling, tumbling through the air in their dining room before she caught it again, fingers gaining confidence with each toss.

"Albert Jennings?" James asked idly, but she wasn't fooled. She smiled at her older brother, as he headed toward the garden door. He paused and sent her a dark look, and she nodded. "What did he do?"

"Nothing much James, I'll take care of him," she replied, dancing around the long mahogany table, tossing the blade like a baton above her head.

"Jaime Elise Moriarty, WHAT DID HE DO?!" James yelled, his left hand clutching the doorknob, eyes bright, jaw clenched. Jaime caught the blade and stilled, settling her feet and facing her brother.

"He attempted to touch me after I told him no. I left him pissing himself on the street corner outside his house," Jaime answered, eyes locked with her brother's. She would always answer him. He was her brother, her savior, and she would keep nothing from him.

"How did he touch you?"

Jaime shivered, and ruthlessly banished the reaction to his question. She breathed in deep, and recited the facts, calmly and complete.

"We exited the bus on the corner, and he stopped me from walking home by putting his hand on my shoulder. I told him to let go, as the street was busy and I didn't want to incapacitate him and draw attention. He asked me 'out'—"Jaime sneered and James quirked a brow—"and I told him no. I tried to walk away, and he pushed himself on me again, grabbing my hip. He asked me out again, and then tried kiss me, at which point I kneed him in the groin and elbowed him in the throat. He let me go, and I came home."

James was shaking his head, and he fell back against the door, clutching his stomach and laughing. Jaime shrugged, and went back to tossing her knife. The balance on it was truly divine, and the silver flashed brightly in the light from the chandelier. She wondered who made it, and tried to find a maker's mark, but the only thing on the blade was the promise her brother made to her in Irish. She smiled, and went back to dancing in the dining room, her blade her partner.

James stopped laughing, and waved a hand at her as he stepped out the door to the rear garden. Jaime watched through the tall windows, as her brother walked to the far end of the garden, where the iron fence barricaded their home from the alley. It was where James went often to speak to his contacts, as he was reluctant to leave her alone in the house when she was home. She could take care of herself, as the body count she had already at sixteen years could attest, but her brother was in charge, and she knew he loved her. She treasured his love, and let him manage his time and hers as he saw fit.

Jaime laughed as the blade came close to slicing her neck, her attention momentarily distracted by the dark shadow that beckoned to her brother as he approached the gate. James opened the gate, and the man stepped in the garden, and Jaime paused her dancing as she blinked in shock. The man, whom she could not see but for his tall, lean frame and dark black hair, had his hands on James' waist and was backing him slowly against the fence. Jaime snarled, the blade ready in her grip, and she charged the doorway, intent on killing the fool who dared to touch her brother.

She opened the door, and skidded to a stop, completely at a loss. Instead of trying to fight his attacker off, her older brother was wrapping his arms around the strange man's neck, lifting his mouth to be plundered and taken in a kiss that made every hair on Jaime's body stand on end. Her brother must have been enjoying himself, if the mewling cries she heard and the way he jumped up and wrapped his legs around the taller man's waist was any indication.

Jaime turned in a daze, and walked back in the house. She closed the door as quietly as she could, and walked out the dining room. She stood in the front hall, and thought about what she'd just seen. Sex to her was anathema; she had trouble even thinking the word. She knew she was broken in that regard, but she didn't care. Part of her knew intellectually that her brother was not as deeply affected by their torment at the hands of their stepfather, Lord Blackwood, but she'd never seen him express or act on any sexual need. She'd thought he was like she was, uninterested and removed from such an affliction as desire.

Jaime shook her head, and slipped the blade into the thigh sheath that had come with it for her birthday. She walked to the front door, and grabbed her leather jacket. She walked out the front, making sure to hide the blade on her thigh and reassuring herself she had her gloves and mobile phone.

If she could not understand her brother's decision to engage in sexual acts, then she would focus on what she did understand.

Killing.

There was a very rude and disgusting young man at the corner who needed a lesson in how to talk to a woman, and Jaime Moriarty was very good at teaching men to fear her. Whether he lived or died depended on how sweetly he begged for forgiveness.

* * *

><p><strong>Hyde Park—London<strong>

**Current Day, Same Day as Bombings**

"Christ Greg, you look horrible! Who the hell released you from the hospital?" John yelled as they met the DI at the southern gates of Hyde Park, the whole area covered in police vehicles.

Sherlock didn't pause, as John and Lestrade talked to each other on the stone pathway. Sherlock dodged the men, following the path, the whole area cordoned off with yellow tape and uniformed officers standing along the route to the interior.

Sherlock pulled up his mental maps of the Park, and reasoned from the direction he was heading that wherever the body was, it was at the concert gazebo used for summer performances. He took the path in long strides, and noted the curious gazes of the officers along the way, men whose eyes widened in recognition as he passed. His days of anonymity were long gone; no longer could he pass on the streets of London without someone knowing who he was, and what he did. It would make his work harder to accomplish, but there were times in came in handy. Such as now, as no one dared to impede his progress.

The path weaved through the beech trees, the giants bare of leaves, and their bark dark and smooth. They appeared skeletal even in the noonday light, and Sherlock dismissed the chilly ambiance as human fallacy.

John and Lestrade were a few feet behind him, talking about the bombing that morning, but Sherlock was barely listening, too focused on the crime scene. He left the company of the beeches behind, and stopped on the edge of the square in which the gazebo rested in the center. John and Lestrade stopped too, and thankfully stayed silent, letting him observe without needing to filter them out.

He could smell the blood, even this far away. The breeze was minimal, but present enough to saturate the air with the metallic and cloying scent of spilled blood, in large quantities. The sun streamed through the cloud cover, and Sherlock eyed the stone pavers before he placed each foot, looking for evidence. Lestrade must have ordered the area to be cleared, since everyone was on the lawn around the square, watching him. Sherlock held up a hand, and John and Lestrade stayed back as he moved ahead one step at a time.

He was about ten feet from the large stone steps that led into the gazebo, when he paused. He breathed in through his nose, holding the scents, thinking. There was the faintest of hints of something, something he should know. He closed his eyes, and tried again, running through the mental catalogue he held in his Mind Palace, but nothing jumped out at him. He filed the scent away, letting his subconscious search for an answer, and turned his higher thought processes back to the immediate scene.

From where he stood, he could see up onto the floor of the gazebo, and the slim figure hanging from the thick white ropes. A woman, mid-twenties, naked and killed in the binds. The death-stroke was observable from where he stood, her head leaning backwards, the glint of bone visible through the thickened blood on her neck. The crimson fluid was less dried and more frozen; as the sun moved across the scene, it began to melt, dripping, the liquids separating, the blood breaking down. Her hair stuck to her shoulders and chest, the ends soaking wet while the crown and upper face were free of blood.

_Minimal thrashing. She was hanging for only a couple of minutes when he sliced her neck. Her wrists and ankles bear next to no markings, aside from what's caused by the ropes holding her up. She could have been drugged, or restrained another way before she was hung from the ceiling. _

Sherlock moved to the steps, carefully placing one foot at a time, noting the complete lack of detritus and dirt that should be present on any surface exposed to the elements. He knelt, and pulled out his miniature magnifying glass, and held it over the step above the one he was on. There were smooth, even grooves on the stones, and he smiled.

_Killer swept the stone before he killed her. Removed trace evidence. No point in sweeping AFTER she was dead, the blood would be everywhere._

He stood, and took the last step, entering the gazebo, its shadow falling over him, the icebox chill sinking through his Belstaff. He could feel the cold even through the soles of his shoes, and his breath frosted in the darkness. He waited, letting his eyes adjust to the dichotomy of light and shadow.

The blood under the body was a wide, thick pool, still frozen, the sun high enough the slant of light barely touched the edges of the main section. It ran in rivers along the seams in the tiles, alternating between clean thin lines and pooled, rounded edges. It crept across the floor, and stopped not far from where he stood.

There were footprints in the blood, but not many, all identical. The minimal tracking made it clear that the killer knew what he was about, and what he was going to do next. Most frenzied killers were everywhere on their kill sights, indecisive and leaving their marks on everything, from smears to smudges and streaks of blood. This killer was different; he was in complete control.

_He stood in front of her and sliced her neck, he would have been covered in blood. The footprints are smooth, the lines clean. He was wearing something on his feet, something to cover his footprints but not leave behind tread marks. Smart, very smart. The path he took was only meant to let him mark her body, and it was done quickly, from the way the blood filled the footprints as he moved around her. If he had taken more time, the blood would have frozen around his prints, and not moved into the marks as he lifted his feet._

_The marks are clean, expertly delivered on her skin. Blade was tipped downwards, to avoid blood discharge from the blade point as he cut. He controlled everything here; even where the drops of blood would fall. Only the killing stroke left castoff on the wall._

Sherlock moved in another step, and kept his feet off the blood and footprints. He peered at the wall, evaluating the angle of the castoff on the stone column nearest the body, the height and distance from the corpse.

_He was about my height. Feet slightly larger. Maybe half an inch taller, no more. Muscular enough to cut that deep in one attempt._

Sherlock held up his own hand, and moved fast, cutting across the air as the killer must have done across her throat, holding the imaginary blade at the end of its swing, thinking hard.

Whispering came to him, and he lowered his arm, realizing that John and Lestrade were at the base of the steps, watching him. Sherlock looked back to the body, and followed the ropes up, where they hung amongst the pulley system used for sound stage equipment. He moved slightly, and tilted his head.

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat, and he inched in, centimeters from the blood, attention held by what he was seeing above him.

"John, Lestrade," Sherlock called out softly to the men behind him. He heard them move carefully up the steps, and they bracketed him on either side. Sherlock pulled out his mobile, not once removing his eyes from the ceiling. "I know why she died here, of all places."

"Why here, then?" Lestrade asked, watching his face. Sherlock lifted his mobile, and took a picture, the flash illuminating the shadows above them.

"Look," Sherlock sighed, and dropped his mobile, eyes tracing the Devil that seemed ready to pounce on them from where it crouched over their heads.

"Oh my God," John breathed, putting a hand to Sherlock's shoulder.

The Devil, cloven hooves and horns, with expansive wings and vicious claws, snarled down at them from the stone in which it was carved. The ropes framed the demon, white bands that encircled the creature carved from the depths of a Gothic nightmare. Sherlock paused, pulling up the mental design maps for the park, and smiled briefly. This structure was once called the Devil's Grotto, decades before. It now held a foolish name, something less on the spot, something idiotic that Sherlock couldn't stand to remember, much less retain.

"She died under the gaze of the Devil. He found another monster to watch him work," Sherlock whispered, and lowered his gaze to the ruined form of flesh and blood.

"God, he's insane, isn't he?" Lestrade gasped, and Sherlock spared him a glance, rolling his eyes.

"Serial killers are by definition not sane, Lestrade. This one is indeed insane…..and now predictable. He wants an audience—another monster to admire his work. This here," Sherlock gestured to the macabre display in front of them, "is for the monster above, as much as it is for us."

"We find the next monster he wants to see him work, we find him." Sherlock grinned, enjoying the game.

* * *

><p><strong>Hyde Park—London<strong>

**The Devil's Grotto**

Sherrinford stood still under the beech tree, its thick branches hiding him well enough from the police nearby. James lounged against the great trunk, hands in his pockets, both men watching the detective, the DI, and the doctor as Sherlock exercised his skills.

"Taking a bit of a risk with this, aren't we?" James asked casually, chewing on a shockingly pink piece of gum that smelled like watermelon. He blew a bubble, and snapped it, grinning at Sherrin.

"They aren't paying any attention what so ever, my dear boy. We have nothing to worry about."

"I love the outfit," James giggled, one hand tugging on the dark Belstaff that Sherrin wore.

"How better to blend in at a crime scene that has Sherlock in attendance, than to dress like him? Playing down our similarities would cause more comment than actually looking like him," Sherrin mused, watching with interest as Sherlock found almost right away the reason why Sherrin chose the Devil's grotto for his latest muse.

"I admit to having to look twice, the resemblance is….unnerving," James grumbled, blowing another bubble.

Sherrin laughed, confident in the distance between himself and his youngest sibling. He shook his head, and bowed to his young companion, making James smirk and snort with laughter of his own.

"Stop it, you monster. I'd rather not run from the coppers, too damn tired. Shush!" James giggled as Sherrin arched a brow at him, exactly as Sherlock would to John, and Sherrin rolled his eyes. Playing his little brother was ridiculously easy.

His mobile vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out, a gloved finger highlighting the text. Sherrin laughed again, a deep, pleased sound that drew James' attention.

"What is it?" James asked, pushing off the tree.

Sherrinford grinned, a deep satisfaction filling him. His plans, and James' were moving ahead on time and schedule, and now, for a bonus, his guest was finally coming around.

Sherrin held the mobile so James could see, and the young man snorted, laughing again, his manic eyes glowing with a strange joy. Sherrin grinned, and offered his arm to the shorter man. James took it, and together they marched away from the square and the lovely, empty corpse, leaving behind his brother.

"Come, my dear boy, our guest is finally awake. My last weapon in our game can now be put in play."


	63. Death, Love and the Angel

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but he owns me.**

**A/N: Ahh, romance. And drama. Love them both. This chapter is an interlude, a pause, the final breath before a plunge over a cliff.  
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**Apologies for the delay and brevity. I'll be back soon, I promise, just trapped in the real life travails of moving house and home.**

**WARNING: I'm not spoiling anything. ;-)**

**Enjoy!**

**P.S- Credit to Lord Byron for the lines borrowed from his poem, "She Walks in Beauty."**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 63<strong>

"_**Death, Love, and the Angel"**_

"Sshhh, relax. I'm here, my love, I'm here…"

She knew that voice. Every time she became aware, he was there. The voice, the man, spent time with her every day, speaking to her of many things, topics varied and delightful, charming and sweet and subtly seductive. Inescapable, and desired. He was there with her, in the darkness. His warmth, his touch, his scent.

Blood, smoke and seawater.

A hand caressed hers, so strong and firm. He handled her with confidence, reassuring and comforting. She was so lost, so hurt, that she clung to him, and the safety he gave her. He held her hand, stroking the back of it, fingers calloused from use and yet still smooth. An artist's hand.

"Ahhhh, there she is. Try again, my love, my angel. Just relax, and open your eyes."

She frowned, and tried to turn her head, but the pain held her still. She was so weak. Her thoughts registered his words, understood them, but trying to follow his orders was harder than he knew. She whimpered, and a warm hand cupped her cheek, a broad thumb lightly caressing under her eye.

"You can do it, my angel. Try again."

She leaned into his touch, sighing happily. He reminded her of someone she loved, and perhaps might even be he. There was nothing she would not do for those she loved, she recalled this much of herself.

Love. For love, she would live.

She opened her eyes, so tired, so weak, she couldn't keep them open for more than a heartbeat. She frowned, and borrowed strength from the man holding her so gently. His thumb gently rubbed her skin, waiting patiently.

She breathed in deep, and tried again. Her eyes opened, and the soft light that flared in them made her wince. She blinked, eyes tearing, and tried to hide from the light, closing them.

"Easy, lovely. Here, let me shield your eyes."

The man who held her so tenderly sat beside her on the bed, blocking the light from the window. She opened her eyes as his shadow fell over her face, and looked up. The light behind him obscured his face, a brilliant halo around his dark hair hiding his features in half-shadow. He gave her a smile, and she gasped, a faint sound that made him tilt his head to the side a manner so familiar her heart felt trapped in a vise.

"Hello, my love. Still foggy, are we?" He asked her, his hand brushing her hair back from her face, his long fingers graceful and precise.

She blinked, tears finally easing her dry eyes. Her head hurt, a horrible ache that sank deep through her skull, and she couldn't escape it. She groaned, and closed her eyes, swallowing back the urge to vomit.

"Easy, my love. Just breathe slowly, in and out," the man said, holding her hand tightly. "Your head will hurt for quite some time, I'm afraid. I'll give you something for it in a moment."

She followed his instructions, a quality in his voice telling her to obey. He sounded so familiar, his name, his face….it was all so close to her surface thoughts, and she felt like she could say his name any second.

She opened her eyes, and the light was easier to see through. He gave her a smile that cut through the fog, a glorious grin of what appeared to be joy. He was handsome, so handsome a new ache settled over her heart. She knew him, she must, to feel this way. Her heart raced, from terror or love, she could not tell.

"Who..." she tried to say, but her throat was dry, and the air strangled before the words could be spoken.

"Here, angel. Drink this," he let go her hand to bring a glass full of water to her lips, one hand gently cradling the back of her head to help her sip. She had the strength to drink a little, soothing her parched tissues. He put the glass back on a small nightstand, and went back to holding her hand in both of his.

"Who….are you?" she gasped, weak, even those three words almost too much. Her eyes were heavy, and she wanted to sleep, but the desire to know who her dark angel was kept her from succumbing.

"You know who I am, my love. You've seen my face before, you've heard my voice. I think, aside from my own family, that there is no one left in this world who knows me as well as you….Anthea."

"Anthea?" she whispered, eyes closing. That wasn't her name….her name was…..it was….

"Yes, my love, my fragile angel. My Anthea." He patted her hand, and she felt the warm brush of his fingers on her cheek. "Rest now, and I will see you again. I'm so glad you're getting better. You and I shall have so much fun together."

Someone once called her that….Another man once said that to her…. _My Anthea._

She hummed softly in reply, already falling under sleep's hold. She was so very tired, and a part of her trusted this handsome stranger to protect her while she slept.

* * *

><p>She didn't know how long she slept. She felt different now, enjoying the sensation of choice as she drifted back towards the surface of her mind. Nothing was holding her back now, nothing was keeping her away from the light. She felt her hands, her legs, her bare skin covered in fine linens. She was warm, and surrounded by soft comfort.<p>

A steady, sharp but low beeping greeted her ears, and with each heartbeat that passed she was able to focus on it, her brow wrinkling as she tried to place the sound.

_Vitals monitor. Hospital?_

She floated, content, letting her senses fill in the blanks. She felt heat, falling across her hips and upper thighs, through the blankets.

_Sunlight. It must be middle of the day or early afternoon. I never sleep this late, I'm always up at five in the morning…_

The mattress under her was heavenly, extremely soft and welcoming, and far above standard hospital beds.

_Private care? Expensive, but then Mycroft never spared money when it came to luxury…_

_Mycroft._

Anthea opened her eyes. Light burst brightly, stabbing at her head, and tears ran from the corners of her eyes. She gasped, sucking in a deep breath, and her hands clutched at the sheets.

"Look at you, all awake now. And he's not here to see it, poor Sherrin." She stilled as a man's voice reached her, drifting out from somewhere in the room. A deep chill ran over her, freezing her muscles, locking her whole body in fear.

_He is dead. He can't be here. Am I dead?_

_No. I'm alive. The pain is too real for me to be dead. I'm dreaming._

"I'm dreaming," Anthea gasped, voice harsh from disuse. "This is a dream."

"No, don't think you are. Not right now, at least. Though, this would indeed be a wonderful dream…. Sleeping Beauty wakes up in the arms of her one true love, to live happily ever after, surrounded by her friends and family, miraculously healed and restored, not a scratch to be found…."

A man's hand came in few, wrapped around one of the bedposts at the foot of the bed, which held up a lace canopy above the bed. A ring glimmered, dark gold that flashed, set with a dark stone. He was too far away for her to see the design, but she had a feeling she knew what it was. He spun himself around the post, leaning wide, other arm outstretched as he swung, letting go before he hit the bedside and skipping up to her, grinning like a Cheshire cat. He was immaculately dressed in a dark gray and blue suit, pristine and pressed, handsome as the day he died over two years before.

"But this is not a dream, no fairy tale by which you are lulled into gentle sleep. You are not Sleeping Beauty, he is not your Prince Charming, and you will not be coddled like some insipid princess. He may call you his queen, Anthea, but in this game we play, you will be sacrificed to kill the king," James Moriarty sneered down at her, teeth bared as his eyes burned.

"You died!" Anthea gasped, and she struggled to sit up, hands digging at the mattress to push herself upright. Her head flared in pain, intense and crippling, but the nightmare in front of her refused to go away, and she fought to escape it.

"Death….._was boring,_" Moriarty lamented, buffing his nails on his suit jacket before winking at her. "But your death, Anthea…your death will be anything but boring."

She pressed herself back against the headboard, whole body complaining, and she was weak, too weak to fling herself from the blankets and run.

"My dear boy, always so dramatic," a deep and powerful voice spoke from the other side of the room, and Anthea turned her head fast, a burst of pain temporarily blinding her. "Don't over-stress her, I need her alive for this to work."

"Of course, of course…I was just saying hello," Moriarty pouted, and slinked away from the bed.

Her eyes swam with tears, and as her sight returned, Anthea cried out in denial. She must be dead, this was no dream. For two men to return from the dead, and be here, together, was impossible. They were dead.

"Ahhhh…. Hello, my love. I see you remember me, I was afraid you'd forgotten," Sherrinford Holmes purred, smiling at her as he prowled with lethal grace over the threshold. His black suit and white shirt made her thoughts jumble, as he looked so like his little brother she felt a stirring of fruitless hope. But the way he smiled at her, and the glint of his violet eyes made it very clear that he was the eldest Holmes brother, and he was far from dead and buried at sea.

He paused at the foot of her bed, and Moriarty danced in small steps to stand by his side, tipping his head back with a sweet and charming grin. The elder Holmes gave him a look that said the younger man was all that was dear to him, yet the hand he buried in the long brown locks betrayed his feral nature, holding Moriarty still as Sherrinford kissed him roughly.

Anthea tried to breathe, to keep air moving, she tried. All for naught, as her body gave up, and she fell into the darkness, praying that when she awoke next, that this nightmare would be over.

* * *

><p><strong>January 18<strong>**th****, Late Evening**

**London**

**St Bart's**

"Sally, stop fusing with the IV!" Molly admonished, and gently slapped the sergeant's fingers away from the insertion site in the crook of her elbow. "Don't make me tie you down!"

Molly blushed as Sally gave her a pained but still wicked grin, but she let her hand drop to the white hospital blankets that covered her chin to toes. She tried to speak, but coughed instead, and Molly held her shoulders as she winced, pain draining the blood from her naturally darker toned skin on her bruised cheeks. Molly let her go once the coughing fit eased, and got a foam cup of ice water with a straw and helped Sally sip.

"Feel better?" Molly asked, putting the cup back.

"Yeah, thank you…." Sally whispered, voice harsh from the smoke and the heat from the bombs. "How long have I been out?"

"Umm…a while. But you're going to be just fine, don't worry," Molly hastened to reassure, taking Sally's hand in both of hers. "You broke some ribs when the blast threw you into the car, and the shrapnel got embedded along your left side and back, some spots on your shoulder. Biggest concern at the time was blood loss, but we're getting that sorted."

Molly gestured to the IV stand, where a unit of blood was slowly being fed into Donovan's arm. "They got all the shrapnel out, don't worry, and they had a cosmetic surgeon attending, so you'll have minimal scaring."

Sally peered up at Molly, and her lips twisted in a small, tight smile. "What's one more scar?" Sally whispered, her free hand waving vaguely in the direction of her neck. Molly recalled the large, long scar that graced the top of Sally's neck under her hairline, a parting gift from Jaime Moriarty months before.

Molly didn't know what to say, so she just gave Sally a small smile and brushed curls off her forehead. "I've got to get back to the morgue, got a corpse incoming."

Sally sighed, and tried to nod, but winced and held still. She narrowed her eyes at Molly, and whispered, "Another serial?"

"Sherlock says yes. Greg's working the case too, he's okay. Just some bumps and bruises from the bombing, he made out fine, considering," Molly told her, and patted her hand once before gently resting it on the blankets. "He'll be by in the morning once they allow you visitors. I kinda snuck in, lab coat has some perks."

"Okay…" Sally sighed out on a deep exhale, her eyes closing as sleep took her under. Molly hovered, waiting until she was sure that Sally was truly asleep before walking quietly out of the room. She nodded in thanks to the patiently waiting nurse outside the door, and headed for the morgue at a fast walk.

Sherlock was coming…with another victim. Molly set aside her worry for Sally, and focused on the task ahead. This is what she did; Sherlock and Greg brought her a body, she gave them what secrets the bodies held, and Sherlock solved it all.

Molly got in the elevator, and put her hands in her pockets. A crinkle of paper found her ears as her fingers met a small sheet of paper torn from a notepad. She pulled it out, and flipping it over, read the words written in flawless calligraphy.

"_She walks in beauty, like the night_

_Of cloudless climes and starry skies;_

_And all that's best of dark and bright_

_Meet in her aspect and her eyes;_

_Thus mellowed to that tender light_

_Which heaven to gaudy day denies."_

"What? Who…?" Molly blushed, face burning, a silly grin curving her lips as she looked around. She was alone in the elevator, and felt foolish, and reread the poem. She grinned wide, and tried to figure out where it came from. The coat she wore now was fresh, the pockets empty earlier in the day when she put it on. The note hadn't been there before she went to see how Sally was doing after surgery, and she couldn't recall picking anything up. Someone else must have put it in the pocket of her lab coat when she wasn't looking.

Someone must be confusing her with someone else; Molly wasn't one to inspire anyone to quotes by Lord Byron. She recognized the poem; hard not to, as the Regency-era poet was beyond famous, especially in the UK.

Someone must be confused. Whoever wrote this must be, right? It wasn't from her notepad, as she never wrote scripts, but the space for the GP's name was blank. Just an address, and a mobile number. She pondered calling the number, but what would she say? "_I found a few lines of a famous poem in my pocket, are they yours?"_

Molly reread the lines again, and smoothed her fingers over the finely penned words. The elevator dinged and the doors opened, and Molly got a glimpse of Sherlock's lanky form at the end of the hall, John beside him. She tucked the note away, and exited the lift, walking to her friends with a smile on her face.

* * *

><p><strong>St Bart's Morgue<strong>

**Same Night**

The chill ate at his fingers, even through the fine leather of his gloves. He gripped the edge of the table as the lab assistants lifted the body of the serial killer's latest victim to the flat steel surface with a mild thunk. He saw John flinch at the sound from the corner of his eye, but the corpse Molly was carefully unzipping caught his full attention…for a short moment.

He'd done a full examination of the corpse at the kill site, and all he lacked at this point was her name. She was an upper class woman, rich and accustomed to living a pampered lifestyle. She should be missing in someone's life, even if it was only a maid, and the fact she hadn't been reported missing yet led Sherlock to conclude she was often unaccounted for, leaving her home or flat for short periods of a few days. Most likely liaisons, and frequent one-night stands. She may not be expected home for another twelve hours, if his estimation of when she died was accurate.

Molly worked around him, as Sherlock refused to vacate his proximity to the table or the body, and he noted her sidelong glances and tiny moues as she had to weave her hands around his arms to align the corpse better on the table. He caught the scent of flowers and tea and felt the warmth of her lithe body as she flitted about him, working without complaint as he maintained his stubborn spot.

The hesitancy of her usual behavior was gone; her cheeks were flushed, and the smile she'd sported when exiting the elevator just minutes ago had not been there as a result of her seeing them waiting outside the morgue. There was something in the way she moved, how her hands and her eyes were flustered yet oddly calm; when she looked at him, she saw him, but there was a thought in her pretty eyes that distracted her from her usual obsession with him.

Something was stealing Molly's attention from Sherlock, and he found he wasn't liking it, not one bit.

The dead woman held little of his considerable focus as he turned it all to Molly Hooper, even for the short heartbeat of time it took for him to determine she was doing better in his presence than she had been previously. Whatever it was that occupied her thoughts made it easier for her to be near him, and do her job. He didn't know how he felt about this, since it was alternately what he wanted and not, simultaneously. Molly drifted closer, tugging the black plastic bag out from under the corpse's shoulder, and she, in a briefest of seconds, leaned her bird-like frame on his arm. Her warmth stole into his body, and he dipped his head the slightest amount, eyes drifting shut halfway.

John coughed from the desk where he'd dropped himself and his coat, and Molly walked away with the body bag, throwing it in a white bin for it to be sterilized later. He blinked, trying to clear his head, and gave John a frown when that worthy eyed him speculatively from his seat in Molly's chair.

"Same cuts, same methodology to the patterns. Same hand made these cuts as the previous victim," Molly murmured, the hesitancy normally present in her voice and manner absent as she gazed at the corpse.

"Yes, it is the same man," Sherlock agreed, pulling his thoughts and eyes away from Molly with some difficulty before doing his level best not to deduce his pathologist's heart. "Molly, do you have the photos from the previous victim's injuries?"

"Yes, over on the desk. Hard copies and a thumb drive." John picked up the folder she pointed to, and began flipping through the pictures, grimacing as he went.

"I need photos of these marks too. I took some at the scene, but the body's pose in the ropes make them appear differently than they do here, with the body supine with arms down."

"Got it," Molly said, and walked to her desk, smiling at John as she got out her camera. John murmured a hello and gave her a smile in return, and while her eyes were busy on her task, John gave Sherlock a look he would be a fool not to interpret as "_What the hell was that_?"

Sherlock shrugged, not sure himself, and finally pushed himself away from the exam table. The body was on the middle table, and Sherlock backed away until his hips met the table behind him. He glared at the body, knowing what he needed was just out of reach. The marks were not random. They were placed with cold-blooded precision and skill, and that meant they had a purpose. Sherlock knew that if he figured out the secret of the markings, he would have his killer.

Unless their purpose was to appear to have purpose, and they were naught but a trap to keep his attention away from the real clues?

So Sherlock reclined on the table, alternating between watching the body, and deducing the merits of a serial killer leaving clues that would lead to his identity.

And doing his level best not to wonder why Molly's hand strayed occasionally to her pocket, as if making sure something was still there, a small smile gracing her lips and a glow on her cheeks.

* * *

><p><strong>St Bart's<strong>

**Same Time**

Jim moved through the small crowd outside the hospital, shedding the white coat and dumping it in the shadows beside the small garage outside the gates. He passed the spot where Sherlock supposedly died over two years prior, and grinned as he read "_We believe in Sherlock Holmes"_ in yellow paint sprayed over a graffiti tag of the detective himself in silhouette.

_No one ever sees past the first blush of expectation,_ he mused as he entered the deep shadow of the building, the taillights of the car waiting for him glowing in the black like two red coals. He checked over his shoulder, confident that no one had seen him as he navigated the halls of St Bart's, teeming with cops and government officials, one more faceless doctor in a sea of white coats.

The rear door popped open as he neared, a pale white hand holding it for him as he slipped inside. He shut the door, and the hand settled on his thigh, its weight a reminder of its owner's claim on his body.

"That was fast, my dear boy," Sherrin's rumble came out from the shadows beside him, and the car pulled away from the alley. "I assume it went well?"

"Perfectly. The units are in use, as I predicted. None of the dead were high profile, but enough of them were injured sufficiently to warrant transfusions. Three weeks before the first symptoms begin."

"Excellent, James, well done," Sherrin purred in his ear, a powerful hand climbing the inside of his thigh, stopping a hair's breadth from his crotch. Jim shuddered, and his head fell back, leaving his neck bared to the teeth that scraped along the long muscles, nipping just under his ear.

"And did your last task go as well?" Sherrin whispered in his ear as that hand glided over his groin, tugging at the zipper. Jim groaned softly as Sherrin opened his trousers, exposing his hard erection to the cool air. Long fingers tugged him free, wrapping in a secure and almost painful grip, stroking in full sweeps up and down his cock. Teeth bit until he whimpered, but he managed an answer as his eyes glazed over in lust.

"Yes….she got it. Her reaction was just as you predicted," Jim gasped, lifting his hips as Sherrin's strokes grew more demanding.

Jim found himself bodily lifted and dropped in Sherrin's lap, his legs spread wide and his pants down around his ankles, his boots the only thing keeping them on. Sherrin's big hand claimed his cock, as Jim was cradled in the curve of his other arm, Sherrin sucking on his neck, making him squirm.

"Women, no matter how practical, appreciate romance, my dear boy," Sherrin told him, tongue investigating the skin behind his ear, licking over the mark he'd left, the sharp ache now a dull throbbing. "Disarm his people one by one, and Sherlock will have fewer resources in the end. Very well done, James. I am proud of you."

Jim groaned again, unable to stop his hips from snapping upwards, Sherrin's hand milking precum and making his balls tighten, a tingle building behind his cock, shivers racing over his body in time with his heartbeat.

"Shall you be rewarded?"

"Yes, yesss please," Jim begged, and Sherrin stroked him harder, dancing over the edge of painful now.

"Let me hear you, let me hear your noises," Sherrin ordered, and Jim cried out, reveling in the pain and pleasure of his lover's grip, his cock flushed red and straining, the crown glistening in precum. He whimpered and moaned, Sherrin rewarding him by sucking on his neck again, a half-twist of his wrist making him sob into the older man's mouth.

"Come for me…Now," Sherrin ordered him, speaking his words against Jim's plundered lips.

Jim came, his cock pouring thick ropes of seed over Sherrin's slim fingers, his lover stroking every last drop of semen out of him, relentless. The stroke continued until he whined, oversensitive, cock softening.

Sherrin released him, and Jim lay limply on his lap, eyes drifting shut, breathing hard. He closed his eyes, head draped back over Sherrin's strong arm, and he tensed when fingers traced his lips, opening his mouth. Semen coated digits filled his mouth, and Jim groaned around them as Sherrin made him lick and suck his essence from his fingers.

Jim opened his eyes, and watched Sherrin past his hand, violet gems burning in the darkness, as Jim sucked and licked up every spilled drop.

* * *

><p>Sherrin held the sleeping criminal in his lap, clothes back in order and curled upon his chest, face relaxed in slumber.<p>

The limo cruised through London, heading north, towards Highgate Cemetery. The vehicle took a tight corner, inertia pulling them slightly, and Sherrin heard a muffled complaint from the trunk.

His final muse was awake.

Sherrin chuckled, and adjusted the young man sleeping so trustingly in his embrace, pushing strands of silky brown hair away from his eyes. He bore little resemblance to the stripling who'd pulled Sherrin from the sea decades earlier, faint traces of him visible in his darkness of his eyes.

They had time yet before Sherrin's final and last display in London, before he retreated to his studio and spent the next month crafting his art. Then, when his muses were resurrected in the golden hues and soft woods of their eternal youth, would he venture out and seek new inspiration. By then, London would be in a mire of confusion and fear, the structure of civilization beginning to fray around the edges.

And while Sherrinford crafted his art, James Moriarty would be unleashed on London.

* * *

><p><strong>Highgate Cemetery<strong>

**Midnight**

Sherrin lowered the knife, blood running down the blade, over his hand, the heat of the liquid cooling rapidly as the body jerked and spasmed in front of him.

The Angel of Death loomed above him, wings spread wide and tall as they framed the moon as it showered light down over Sherrin's naked form. Mighty hands outstretched, each holding a scythe and a coiled whip in the other, the stone limbs holding the now vacated body of Cressida E. Vaudeville, where it hung suspended by thick white ropes.

"Shame, I missed the good bits," James muttered as he stumbled out of the limo, wiping sleep from his eyes and yawning. He pulled his coat tight around his slim torso, and began to wander past the headstones, making his way towards Sherrin until he held up his hand, warning him to stop. James sat on a headstones, and shivered.

"Now for the work, just in time my boy," Sherrin called out as he watched the last light of spirit disappear from the young woman's eyes. She'd been a fighter, this one, and Sherrin applied the knife with judicious glee to her torso.

"When did you get that one, Sherrin?" James asked, and Sherrin spared his young lover a glance, the lithe form of the master criminal shaking in the cold night air.

"While you were flirting with your ex-girlfriend," Sherrin's lips twisted in derision at the foolish sentiment, clearly conveying his opinion on the matter.

"No need to play the jealous lover, Sherrin," James growled, shaking hard, tucking his hands under his arms. "You knew what my plan was."

"I've been watching this one since we came back. Caught my eye first," Sherrin said softly, answering the younger man's question and ignoring the jab. James leaned forward to hear him fully.

"Why's that?"

"Surely you can see," Sherrin told him, the body jerking with tiny movements as Sherrin added a flourish to the end of the pattern curving around the ribcage, ending over a slim hip.

The wind was his answer, Sherrin aware of the younger man getting to his feet and pacing behind him, staying a couple of grave-lengths away, and he kept to his task. James would see it soon. He held the blade securely, lest his grip slip in the warm blood, and guided the tip through the top layers of skin, the blemish free flesh parting like silk to a katana's kiss.

"Oh, you devil…" James snickered, which morphed into an infectious peal of delighted laughter, bouncing off the stone mausoleums and headstones. "Think anyone will notice?" James asked through his sporadic giggles, snorting and covering his mouth, breaking down every time he looked back at the corpse.

"I do hope so, or I may need to reevaluate the intelligence level of my siblings…"

"Sherlock hasn't deciphered the biggest clue yet, otherwise he would have gone running to dearest Mikey by now. I'll not hold out hope that either of your brothers are going to figure this out."

Sherrin stood back from the final piece of this month's phase, tilting his head, checking he'd left nothing out. Each cut, each gentle loop and swirl, every centimeter of bloody perfection was crucial to the grand design. When each muse was arranged together in the correct order, then the hidden message in the cuts and slices would become clear. All it would take was patience from the younger, forgiveness from the elder, and the final reckoning would come to pass in due time.

He had time though—James was right, and Sherlock had yet to see the bigger pattern. His youngest sibling's youth in the beginning days of Sherrin's artistry was appearing to be a handicap.

And if Sherlock couldn't solve the puzzle in blood and flesh? Then he would resume his art next month, every week of the full moon, until London was gripped in the throes of fear and panic, and Sherlock was at his wit's end. There was a surfeit of young women who wore the resemblance to Evangeline Hunter in either grace, form, intelligence or wit living in the throngs of London, and Sherrinford would continue his craft willingly until they all bled. Or until his brother came for him at last.

Genius and madness was their heritage, and there was no line dividing it in Sherrin's heart and mind. The truest vengeance he could claim on his siblings would be to destroy Sherlock's purity of conviction in his skill and abilities, and entice him to the madness to find succor.

"Is everything ready on your end, my dear boy?" Sherrin asked, as he stepped back through the brown grass, dampened by blood rendered black in the silver light. He carefully stood on the tarp waiting for him, his bag and tools and fresh clothing laid out already. He put away his knife, and proceeded to clean himself sufficiently to dress, and sought out James when he didn't receive an answer to his question.

James was sitting cross-legged on a flat and wide stone bench, shivering in his dark coat, eyes trailing over the tableau hanging in the Angel's arms. The delicate _ping, ping _of blood dripping on the metal of the bronze scythe's lower portion broke the quietude, and Sherrin threw on his white robe as he gazed at his young lover. He tied the robe closed, and began to peruse the scene, making sure he had everything accounted for.

"James?"

"How does it make you feel, Sherrin?" James asked suddenly, not tearing his eyes away from the corpse.

"What, my dear?"

"Killing in such a way?"

Sherrin paused, holding back the quick answer. He stood in the bright, cold night air, hardly feeling the frigid temperatures, watching James breathe frost into the shifting shadows as clouds raced over the moon above.

"Satisfaction." Sherrin smiled, and walked through the dead grass of the graveyard, stopping at James' side where he sat on the mourner's bench. James finally looked up at him, the light illuminating his dark eyes, letting Sherrin see the oft-hidden patterns in the irises. There was a hint of madness there, a wildness that peered back at Sherrin, and he felt an answering thrill reply to that insanity from his own heart. "I feel satisfaction, and contentment. An expression of who I am, at the most basic, and purest, level I can fathom. Where others struggle to know themselves, and spend their lifetimes battling themselves only to die with regrets and discontent, I know who I am, what I am. I am satisfied, fully, by what I do, and how."

"Then why seek vengeance?"

"I seek vengeance to appease the faint hurts and anger my brother's betrayals left upon my past. I will not die dissatisfied in myself, but I will die uneasy if I let them pass from this world without suffering as they should, as they must. My purpose is beyond their ken and their interference. So they must pay, in whatever method I desire, for daring to stop me, or attempting to sway me from my pursuits."

James gazed up at him, and Sherrin looked back. A quiet settled over them, and it hung suspended, as if waiting. Finally James smiled, and hopped off the bench, spritely and bouncing on his heels.

"You're bloody insane, Sherrin. Completely round the twist, aren't you?"

Sherrin reached for James, but the smaller man danced away, laughing as he darted through the headstones, smiling over his shoulder as he jumped into the rear of the limo.

Sherrin chuckled, and collected his gear, exercising extreme caution as he carried it all to the limo. He made sure with one last glance that he'd left nothing behind, and got in the limo. The engine purred to life, and Sherrin settled back into the rapidly warming leather with James curling up to his side, head resting on his shoulder.

They left the Angel of Death behind, but not alone. The grinning skull of the angel gazing down with a seeming fondness over Sherrin's offering. Blood froze in the weak wind, the moon searing the dead woman's body as it too froze, crystals forming on lashes, vacant eyes taking in the glory of Highgate at night.

"You done then, for now?" James whispered, sleepy, caressing Sherrin's chest through the open neck of his robe.

"If he fails to assemble the clues, I will leaving clues next month. But I am done killing, for now."

"Good," James giggled, before breaking out in a yawn and wrapping his arm over Sherrin's torso, snuggling deeper in his embrace. "My turn now."

"Yes it is, my dear boy," Sherrin replied, "And I cannot wait for you to set the world on fire."

"Then it's time, Sherrin."

"Time?"

"Time to bring my sister home."

"And so you shall, so you shall, my dearest James," Sherrin whispered as James fell asleep, lulled by the easy rocking of the limo and the warmth of Sherrin's body. "Family belongs together."

Sherrin reached into his bag, and his hand sought out his mobile. He opened it, the clicks faint, quiet enough not to disturb his lover, as he searched for the picture he wanted. He swiped past the pictures of Sherlock, past Mycroft, until he stopped. He took in the visage of a raven-haired beauty, amethyst eyes shining with a spirit unmistakably reminiscent of her mother's.

Her face, form and intelligence may be a gift from his blood, but Violet Hunter's spirit and soul were solely her mother's. The only woman to stop his blade and tame his bloodlust, Evangeline Hunter lived on in their daughter. Of all the women in the world, she alone among them had nothing to fear from his blade. Where he sought to recreate and render anew the perfection hidden in each of his muses, Violet, his child, was already perfect.

The finest piece of art he could ever give the world was already in existence, and she walked the same streets he hunted.

* * *

><p><strong>221B Baker Street<strong>

**Early Morning, Just Before Dawn**

Violet sat alone on the roof, the access panel open behind her, a soft glow of golden light flowing out of the square space. Her arms were wrapped around her knees, her uncle's Belstaff keeping her warm, and she gazed up at the sky.

The wind was dying, the clouds chased out to sea. The stars glimmered, truly bright to be seen past the air pollution over the city, and the moon took up the whole horizon. She breathed in her uncle's scent, feeling safe, even exposed on the roof for anyone to see, if only they thought to look. Mycroft's people knew she was up here, as her departure from the townhouse earlier was in no way a secret.

Her other uncle had offered her Anthea's old room, but the second the words passed his lips, they both knew it was a decision neither of them was ready to make. Anthea was still there, still with them both, both of them mourning her with an intensity that left them awkward and at odds. Yet it was her death that also aligned them, her purpose left unfulfilled, and Violet could not make herself walk away.

Mycroft needed her. And for Anthea, Violet would help him.

That's what family did, wasn't it? Even when hearts were broken, and lives destroyed, family stayed true until the end?

So for love and family Violet would do her best to live up to the legacy of a remarkable woman.

"Oh, Thea. I miss you."


	64. A Holmes and Moriarty Christmas

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but he owns me.**

**A/N: This is a pure standalone, not part of the plot for Part III. It's canon to my story, but not essential to what's currently going on. This is a standalone moment in time, when James and Sherrinford change their relationship one Christmas Eve. **

**Don't worry all, next chapter drops before the New Year. Sherlock and John will be back!**

**This is dedicated to my dear friend, Silvereyedbitch. Merry Christmas, my love. **

* * *

><p>"<em><strong>A Holmes and Moriarty Christmas<strong>__"_

**Amsterdam**

**Christmas Eve**

**A Lifetime Ago**

"I'm going out for a walk," Jaime called out down the hall from where she was standing at the front door. "I'll be a few hours. Enjoy your _guest_, brother dear." She waited until he nodded briskly before slipping out the solid oak door, the soft click fading fast in the vast and otherwise empty house.

James Moriarty waited until he was sure his fifteen year old sister wouldn't return, and let out a deep exhale, shaking out his hands, nerves making his fingers tingle. Jaime couldn't be around when_ He _came over. It wasn't safe. For anyone. Telling her to leave was always best. She was too deadly, too volatile, to have her anywhere near James' mentor, and his mentor may not be able to resist the allure that Jaime Moriarty might hold for him. She was beautiful, and his flavor of victim. By no means helpless, but those two souls in the same space could be combustible.

James spun on his heel, the polished dark wood floors slippery as his sock-clad feet carried him quickly down the hall, towards the rear garden. He moved through the large house in the dark, lights cold and the shadows clinging to the corners and ceiling, the deepening twilight leeching the remaining light from the evening air.

Night settled over the quiet street as James entered the rear garden, the winter air frosting as he exhaled a nervous breath, eyes darting along the rear fence line. The iron fence rose high, far enough to deter even the most precocious of burglars, and the spikes near the top were wicked spears that threatened painful lacerations to anyone foolish enough to try and climb over.

Usually the garden was dark and full of shifting shadows, the only light coming from the moon and stars overhead. It was dark know, but not for long. James had spent the thousands of euros he'd earned from organizing a bank job in Paris, and done something that was out of character, even for him. His sister, deprived of even the most basic of happy childhood memories, had asked him about why people decorated for Christmas.

James had stared at her a moment, as they walked along the canal, the waterway lined with lanterns and evergreens, sparkling silver and gold lights and red bows. Storefronts were lit up with treats and toys and decorations, gingerbread houses and frosted with fake snow and mannequins in tasteless jumpers. His sister, her long dark tresses cascading down her shoulders and back, covered up to her chin in a long black coat that framed her lovely face and dark eyes, had peered out at the world as if she couldn't comprehend the Christmas spirit, or a reason to celebrate. Part of him agreed with her, understood her apathy with the season. She barely recalled a time in their lives without abuse or pain, hunted by a monster who was meant to love and cherish them, but instead corrupted their innocence and destroyed their futures. Yet James could—he recalled warm and cheery mornings surrounded by love, his father and mother still alive, his infant sister in a cranberry red dress with a white bow in her curls.

"They decorate to celebrate life," James murmured, the words coming out of their own accord, even as he sneered at a happy family dressed for festivities walking by, children outfitted to impress. He had the usual contempt any hard-luck eighteen year old would have at such displays of sentimentality. "Though it's naught but a commercial excuse to celebrate greed now. My kind of holiday, actually."

Jaime had laughed softly, and wove her arm through his, her quick eyes watching the street ahead of them and to the side. They kept a low profile here in Amsterdam, taking jobs out of the city across Europe, an attempt to curtail anyone's attempt to track them back to where they lived. Amsterdam may not be Dublin, but it was home for now. Blackwood Manor had never been home, merely a prison.

"Celebrate a life dedicated to greed is more apt, my love," Jaime whispered, her eyes black pools, the shadows in them chased across the dark iris as they passed by lanterns lighting the canal. "I see no one worth celebrating, no one worth cherishing. Aside from you, Jimmy."

He picked her gloved hand up from his arm, and kissed her knuckles, making her lightning-quick smile flash before it was gone, her serene mask returned. His sister was beautiful, a treasure to watch, whether it was just for a stroll down the street or slicing through a compromised informant's neck. He placed her hand back on his arm, and navigated the holiday crowd out of the city center, towards home.

James pulled his memories away from the day before, and reached out to the wall, flipping the switch that illuminated the rear garden.

Lights exploded across the trees and dormant bushes, the evergreens glowing from within, starry drops glittering through the bare boughs. The meager snow reflected the lights, gold and whites and icy reds and blues hovering along the periphery of the garden.

James tucked his hands in his pockets, and walked down the path, to the rear fence and the wooden miniature garden shed hovered in the back corner near the gate. It was decorated at well, candle-like lights glowing from the windows, the doors outlined as well, every workable surface shining bright.

He paused near the gate, shivering, looking past the iron fence to the rear alley, but couldn't discern anything beyond a few feet. He sighed, and rubbed his arms, trying to keep warm. For a young man who's IQ was in the stratosphere, he didn't think things through sometimes. Impetuous, he remembered his mother calling him once.

"You must love her, to do all this," a voice called to him past the fence, the low timbre enough to make his heart jump hard in his chest. James turned fast on the path, startled, and slipped on the ice. He fell hard, landing on his rear, and heard a chuckle weave through the iron posts.

A figure melted out from the shadows, shockingly white skin catching the glow of the lights, violet eyes burning as brightly as the gaudy candles among the displays. Tall, lean, and with the grace of a hunter, a predator, Sherrinford Holmes was masculine beauty and lethality encapsulated in one seamless example of perfection. His intelligence left even James wary, and aroused. And his utter lack of morals and compassion excited James to a dangerous degree, drawing him in—James was a hopeless moth to the flame that was the most prolific and successful serial killer Europe had seen in generations.

Sherrinford walked up to the gate, and with a negligent push, sent it swinging silently inwards. Sherrin walked down the path, and James swallowed, staring up at the man who sent his body haywire with desire and fear. It wasn't often that Sherrin came to see him; perhaps once a month, mere moments of snatched time here in the garden before the elder would disappear. Most of the time James would ask him questions, seeking solutions to problems his vast intellect couldn't answer, lack of practical experience hampering him in his criminal pursuits. His education had stopped at the age of thirteen, the day he had his baby sister kill their stepfather, and the otherworldliness of the older man gave him insights he would be hard-pressed to learn on his own.

Sherrin offered him advice, and challenged him mentally in ways he couldn't get anywhere else. He feared mental stagnation and boredom, lack of stimuli leaving him fractious and explosive. Sherrin eased the rough edges, each encounter a soothing yet invigorating moment in James' life that left him inspired and sometimes….frustrated.

Sherrinford Holmes left him burning with desire, a sensation he wasn't prepared to feel, much less deal with. The abuses he'd suffered, while incomparable to his sister's, was enough to make him hesitate when it came to sexual relief and needs. Yet Sherrin, the tall, enigmatic and handsome killer, made his body burn, his heart race, and his cock impatient to feel those elegant hands. He never pressed his affections, an inner caution keeping him from making any advances. It wouldn't do to raise the ire of a man who was scoring his body counts around two hundred.

A hand came down towards him, and scooped him off the pavers, returning him to his feet. An arm snaked around his torso, pulling him close to the taller man, and James' hands rested on his chest. Firm muscles moved sedately with each measured breath, and the powerful hips of the monster that held him with such care pressed against his stomach. James tipped his head back, and gazed up at Sherrin, locking his dark eyes with the jewel-toned orbs of the man he'd pulled from the sea years before.

"Speechless, my dear boy? Whatever could be the matter?" Sherrin asked softly, his other hand coming up and his fingertips ghosting over James' cheek. He leaned into the touch, whimpering in dismay when the hand withdrew, teasing him with fleeting contact. The aroma of hot metal and seawater greeted his nose when he leaned into the man holding him so tightly, and his eyes drifted shut.

"Please…." He gasped, eyes shutting, hands sliding up Sherrin's hard pectorals, lacing behind his neck. He climbed to his toes, and pressed shaking lips to his mentor's neck, tasting skin for the first time.

Steel bands roped him in tightly, Sherrin shuddering as James licked delicately at the smooth skin of his neck, lathing the delicious expanse of flesh he encountered. James purred, and Sherrin held him closer, tighter, drawing in a breath and holding it.

"What do you want, my dear boy?" Sherrin asked him quietly, whispering in his ear, full lips caressing his skin. He shuddered, and whimpered again, nipping at the skin under his tongue.

"You. Only you," James answered, aching. He writhed in Sherrin's arms, undulating his hips against the hard shaft he could feel growing in the other man's trousers. "Please, I don't know what to do. Tell me what to do, I want you."

"I can certainly do that. Jump up," Sherrin ordered without hesitation, and James complied, jumping up, and hooking his legs around the taller man's waist. Sherrin adjusted his grip on him, and took the path toward the house.

James was lost in the taste of his soon-to-be-lover's skin, rubbing his eager cock on Sherrin's stomach. He felt the change in temperature as Sherrin entered the house, carrying through the kitchen and dining room, to the rear stairs, and taking the stairs one at a time at a fast clip, not once hesitating.

He saw the paintings and the tapestries on the walls flash by in brief glimpses as Sherrin took the top hallway to the end, and confidently entered James' bedroom, as if he'd always known the way. James smiled, thinking it may not be Sherrin's first time in his house. Jaime was unmolested and unharmed; he would argue the serial killer's presence in his home without his supervision later.

There was something he wanted. Someone he wanted, and thoughts of anything other than quenching his aching need fled fast. Sherrin dropped him flat on his bed, and James bounced a couple of times as he stared up at the older man, captivated and needy.

"Strip, boy," Sherrin told him, a black and white specter standing in the darkness at the foot of his bed.

James answered the steely command with alacrity, hands racing over his body, tearing at his simple trousers and jumper. He hurt himself yanking off his clothing, and he swore as his nails scratched skin and his feet got tangled in the legs of his trousers. His shirt hit the floor seconds before his trousers, and he scrambled to kick off his underwear and socks. At last he lay panting on the bed, naked, shaking from nerves and want. His cock jerked, growing harder under the sharp gaze of the man who watched him, face impassive.

"Come here," Sherrin ordered him, eyes boring hard into his own, and James slid off the bed, and stood before the other man, naked and exposed, his eyes missing nothing, examining him head to toe.

"Remove my clothing, boy."

James bit back an indignant gasp at the command, but his cock loved the idea, growing harder, the ache in his balls making his whole body quiver. He reached out with shaking hands, and carefully slid the heavy black coat from Sherrin's shoulders, off his arms. He folded it carefully, and draped it over the chair next to his bed. He went next for the suit jacket, sliding his hands under the lapels of the garment, pushing it back over the hot skin and muscles he could feel through the thin shirt.

Jacket gone, he folded it as well, aware that Sherrin followed every move he made silently, amethyst eyes taking in his naked body. James tried to breathe, to calm himself, but every breath of air he took merely pulled the other man's scent deep into his own body. Sherrin wasn't even moving, but for his eyes, and yet James felt like he was under the most personal examination he'd ever been subjected to, nothing hidden, all desires revealed.

The jacket joined the coat, and James lifted his hands to Sherrin's shirt. Hands shaking, fingers numb, James cursed under his breath at himself as he slowly managed to unbutton the silk shirt, his hands slipping on the smooth white fabric. He glanced at Sherrin's face, expecting to see condemnation for his childish nerves, but the fire in his jewel-tone eyes made him forget how to breathe, let alone think.

James tore his gaze away, and he heard a deep chuckle as a button gave him trouble near Sherrin's waistband. Long fingers gently moved over his, and disengaged the last button before falling away. James refused to look up, not wanting to see Sherrin laughing at him, and determinedly set his hands to the belt buckle of Sherrin's dress slacks. The black leather was nearly indistinguishable from the trousers in the low light, blending with the equally dark fabric of Sherrin's clothing and the shadows that hovered around them both.

He pulled the belt free, and tossed it aside, his impatience making him careless. Sherrin chuckled again, a deep sound that was almost impossible for James to hear past the blood rushing in his ears.

He pulled at the tail of the shirt, pulling out from under the tight waistband, and he was thankful Sherrin wasn't wearing cufflinks, as the shirt fell away easily. It fluttered to the floor, absorbed by the darkness that clung to the room, and James stilled. The expanse of silken skin and carved muscles that greeted his eyes seemed to be made of stone, finer than the smoothest marble statues in any art museum. The meager light that held the shadows at bay shimmered over his pale skin, and James felt his mouth begin to water, his fingers twitch, the need to touch and taste powerful.

James reached for the button and zipper, and with shaking hands undid them both. Black silk met the back of his fingers, and his whole body shook from the shock of that gentle contact. A noise came from Sherrin's chest, a deep purr and growl made in one, and James gasped. He found his courage in that sound and drew down the zipper, pulling back the folds and pushing the pants back off his hips.

James let go, fingers feeling scorched, and he slowly knelt, rubbing his palms down the iron columns of Sherrin's thighs, over his hard knees, along the sinewy strength of his calves. Simultaneously he worked at the thin shoelaces of Sherrin's fine Italian shoes, the black leather invisible in the deepening night. One by one he freed his feet, Sherrin stepping clear. He removed socks with them, until Sherrin stood nearly naked, trousers open decadently across his lean hips, underwear visible, feet and chest bare.

He stood, and Sherrin's gaze did things to his heart, his body, that left him unable to move. He waited, naked, vulnerable, in a state he'd never let anyone see in him in willingly. His body ached, and he put a hand on his cock, stroking, instinctively trying to ease the tight and hard flesh. His cock was dripping, leaking with need, and he groaned, meeting Sherrin's eyes boldly.

"Hands off, boy. That's mine now," Sherrin rasped, and James squeezed his cock in brief rebellion before dropping his hand away. A bigger, stronger hand took over, the rhythm hard and demanding.

James rocked forward on his toes, hands out for balance, as Sherrin worked his cock, making him cry out. His head feel back, lips parted, as another hand cupped his balls, tugging, nearly painful. He mewled, a soft pathetic noise torn from him at the harsh and powerful motions on his groin left him a mindless combination of lust and need.

"There's what I want," Sherrin whispered, and James' eyes flew open at the touch of the taller man's lips on his own. "Let me hear you."

Sherrin stroked faster, twisting his wrist, driving James to his tiptoes, grabbing at Sherrin's strong shoulders as the gentleman monster drove him to the point of orgasm with just his hands.

He came with a shout, fading to whimpers, crying out again and again, watching now as Sherrin caught his cum in one palm, milking it from his cock with firm strokes with the other hand. He held on to Sherrin, weak, mind shut down, whimpers spilling from his lips, legs shaking. At last Sherrin let him go, and James struggled to stay upright, his legs and feet numb, his cock still half-hard and twitching.

"On the bed. Get on your knees."

It was the order he wanted and feared, come at last. James turned, and with quivering limbs obeyed. He climbed onto his bed, and fell to his hands and knees on the edge of the mattress, the tick coverlet cushioning his knees.

A big, hot hand pressed between his shoulders, forcing his head and upper body down on the bed. He went unresisting, and groaned in weak objection as his wrists were pulled behind his back. He left them there, unrestrained, obeying the silent command to leave them there at the base of his spine.

He jumped, a tiny flutter of surprise, as a wet and slightly warm fluid found its way to his rear, dripping down his crack. He moaned as he realized what it was; Sherrin was using his own cum as lubricant.

"Have you been fucked before, boy?" Sherrin asked from the darkness, and hands gripped his hips, pulling his ass up to a better angle.

"No…no," James gasped out, tongue tick, lips barely able to form the words.

"That bastard of a stepfather never took your virginity?" A callous question asked as James could hear the final tug of a zipper, the rustle of fabric as Sherrin presumably removed the last of his clothing.

"He never touched me…there," James said, distracted by the fingers probing his ass, long and hard digits teasing his tight hole. His cum was still wet and warming again from contact with his skin, and James cried out as a finger pushed past the untried muscles of his ass. He bit at the coverlet, and sobbed at the first intrusion to that private place.

"Then this is mine, do you hear me? I own your ass," Sherrin told him with a dark laugh, thrusting his finger in fast and deep, making James cry out again. "Your body is mine, and only I will take you like this. Do hear me, boy?"

"Yes! Yes…only yours," James sobbed, as a second finger pushed inside him, working the tight muscle loose. Sherrin worked with purpose, without hesitation, stretching and filing James' ass thoroughly, one hand on his hip, holding him still. He could feel the other man's body heat against the back of his thighs, close to his ass, and James could see nothing, the light finally gone completely.

He was surrounded by Sherrin, the man's fingers in his body moving now with ease, the hand on his hip proclaiming ownership. He could hear Sherrin's murmurs of approval, humming in pleasure as James whimpered when he plunged his fingers deep, caressing the inner walls of James' virgin channel.

James cried out when the fingers inside touched on a spot that made white light flash behind his eyes. His prostate. Untouched, even by himself, and James couldn't process the sensation as Sherrin's fingers pegged it over and over. He sobbed, he struggled, and it took Sherrin's hand on his hip to hold him down on the bed. His cock refilled, painful so soon after his prior orgasm, growing hard faster than he would have thought possible even for a teenager of eighteen.

James gasped in shock and dismay as Sherrin pulled his fingers free from his grasping body. He tried to look, afraid Sherrin was leaving, but he was rudely pushed back down on the bed as his wrists were pinned together, and James recognized the supple bite of Sherrin's belt as he was tied. His hips were grabbed again, his ass positioned, and it was the only warning he got before he felt the broad and hot head of a cock pushing on his hole.

"This is mine. You are mine," Sherrin growled, and pushed in. James cried out, the cock invading his body thicker than the fingers that had loosened him. He bucked, and Sherrin growled, gripping him tighter, refusing to stop as James writhed under him.

"Please!" James begged, but for what he couldn't say. The hard, hot length slowly and ruthlessly filling him was too much, but not enough. He groaned as Sherrin bottomed out, balls pressed hard to his ass, his poor hole stretched wider than he felt was possible.

It hurt, it burned, and James bit his lip, trying to hold in his sobs. Sherrin wasn't moving, holding perfectly still, but he was so hard, so deep, James could feel the other's heartbeat throbbing in his ass. His cum let Sherrin slide in without dragging delicate tissues, and Sherrin had ended up lodged deeply inside of him, so deep James was afraid to breathe.

Hands rubbed his flanks, gentle slides that belied the ruthless taking of that first thrust. Carefully, with hitching whimpers, James began to relax, and with the first, tiny withdrawal of the cock inside him, James felt the painful burn evaporate. Liquid heat flooded his muscles, and James groaned. His ass lifted on its own, his body begging for more, and his fingers tangled together as he tried to push back on that hard cock, looking for more friction.

"There it is….." Sherrin sighed, and he pulled back, his cock gliding over his prostate as James groaned. "Let me hear you, James."

He complied, and as Sherrin withdrew to just the crown of his cock breaching his body, James sobbed in joyous frustration when he thrust back in. Over and over, Sherrin rode him, slow deep thrusts that made James' body comply with every demanding motion. Each inward thrust pegged his prostate, and James was subjected to a pleasure that was unbearable, making him cry, tears pooling before streaking down his flushed cheeks. He bit at the blankets, pulled on his restraints, and he bucked up his hips, trying to get Sherrin to move, to do something…harder.

He was wordlessly begging, but Sherrin denied him. The monster dominating his body moved with slow purpose, forcing James to feel every last centimeter of the large cock filling his body. Again and again Sherrin thrust as deeply as he could go, bottoming out, pausing before withdrawing, stretching his hole as the wide head of his shaft nudged at his entrance from inside.

James feel into a mindless rhythm. He sobbed as Sherrin withdrew, he moaned as Sherrin thrust back in, the fit almost too snug, the enormous piece of hot flesh fucking him a sensation he couldn't process. He sobbed and moaned, letting his new master in pleasure hear, know, exactly what each glide of his cock was doing to him.

When he came the second time it snuck up on him. He didn't know it was approaching, so when he came, he screamed in shock and pleasure. He pulsed, pumping out ropes of hot semen across the bed and his abdomen, and his body clenched tightly on the cock buried balls deep in his ass.

His body convulsed, and he went taut, body bowing as he fell into a soundless scream, lungs locked tight, and Sherrin gripped his tied wrists as his cock was caught fast. He was just coming down off the peak of his climax when Sherrin moaned, and wet heat filled his ass. Great pulses of liquid fire filled his tender channel, and James jerked as the sensation made him cum again, Sherrin's orgasm forcing him to have another. A deep, almost sharp pain flashed briefly as his balls emptied out on the bed, and he whimpered, his body milking Sherrin's cock in hard waves of clutching muscles.

He was falling. Mind spinning, muscles rendered limp and useless, and he could barely breathe. A heavy weight fell on his back, pressing him deeper in the soft bed, feeling the wet remains of his orgasm spread across his stomach and chest. Sherrin collapsed on him, his tall and muscular body holding him down. He didn't care if he couldn't breathe; he was content, and he was free. He soared, floating on a high he'd never felt before and never expected. He reveled in the weight of his lover, the sweat dampened flesh between them, and when Sherrin brushed his lips over his cheek James found the strength to offer a small smile in return.

* * *

><p>Sometime later, the snapping of the fire woke him. He was in bed, the fireplace in his room lit, the warmth and light chasing away the shadows and the cold night air. He lifted his head, and was about to sit up, when a strong arm came out from the blankets, and pulled him down to lay on a hard chest.<p>

He gasped, surprised, and looked up into the beautiful eyes of the man who'd taken his virginity. Fingers pushed his hair away from his eyes, and caressed the think skin under his lashes, before Sherrin cupped his face and lowered his lips to his. Sherrin kissed him, a gentle and unexpected connection building between them as James sighed his pleasure into the other man's mouth. The kiss deepened, and went from gentle and loving to hot and demanding in a flash.

James was rolled to his back, and he spread his legs, Sherrin settling between them. He groaned when he felt his lover's hard cock alongside his own, and James eagerly lost himself in his mentor's touch and body.

* * *

><p><strong>Christmas Morning<strong>

A hard knock on his door sounded off like a gunshot, and James sprang awake, sitting up fast. He blinked at the bright morning light as Jaime opened his door, and she smiled at him.

"Happy Christmas, brother. Coming down for breakfast?" She stayed in the hall, thankfully, and James tugged the sheets over his naked body so he didn't bother his sister's sensibilities. She was wary of nudity in men, even her brother.

James spared a quick glance around the room, and only the faint indentation on the other pillow and the delicious aches in his body gave testimony to the way he'd spent his night.

Sherrin was gone.

He felt a bitter pang, but he had only himself to blame. He'd made his wishes clear, years ago, that Sherrin never be around his sister. She would never know him, and time would fade away her only memories of helping James pull an injured and anonymous man from the sea. Once he's discovered how Sherrin spent his free time, James refused to let the serial killer spend any time with his sister, even chaperoned. He didn't think Sherrin would harm her, but he was a sociopath with a favorite flavor of victims, and he wasn't taking any chances.

A part of him was saddened though. Sherrin was merely following his wishes, but he was missed already. He wanted to wake in his lover's arms again. To touch, and be touched. To be held. And fucked, of course.

"Jimmy?"

He tore himself from his thoughts, and gave his sister a small smile, as she gazed at him in concern.

"I'll be down in few minutes. Shower first. Coffee started?" He asked, reaching for his robe that Sherrin must have placed there before slipping out while he slept.

"Tea's on, but I'll start the coffee. Maids made breakfast, hurry up. I want to open presents!" Jaime ordered him, her aristocratic profile relaxing as she winked at him, flashes of the young girl she should have been breaking through the hardened visage she carried like a shield. "Brush your hair, you look silly."

She disappeared, and James carefully pulled on the robe and slipped from bed. His whole body ached, and he flinched as his well-used ass complained at his movements. Sherrin had taken him a total of three times last night, before they passed out, exhausted, wrapped together under the warm blankets.

He walked across his room, tying the robe, when a box on his desk under the window caught his eye. He stopped, staring, wondering where it came from. It was a large and flat rectangular box, deep royal blue, with a silver bow on top and tied with a matching ribbon. He approached it, and gingerly picked up the small card that rested near the bow.

He opened it, and his heart jumped at the elegant script.

_**A boy no longer. Men of value dress their worth.**_

_**Merry Christmas James.**_

_**-SH**_

He put the card down, and untied the ribbon and bow, and lifted the lid. The tissue paper inside crinkled, and he saw a stylized **'W'** embossed on the fine parchment. He carefully pulled back the paper, and he grinned wide in pleasure at the gorgeous suit in deep dove grey that was revealed. He reached in, and lifted the fine jacket, the matching tie falling to the desk.

James eyed the label, and read the designer's name.

**Westwood**

"Merry Christmas, Sherrinford Holmes," James Moriarty whispered.


	65. What He Wants

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but he owns me.**

**A/N: Sincere apologies for the extreme delay. I just finished moving five states across the country. Expect regular updates now, at least twice a month.**

**Short chapter this time, just to get myself back in the story. **

**WARNING: SEX!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 65<strong>

**_"What He Wants_"**

**Mycroft's Townhouse**

**January 19****th**

**Pre-Dawn**

"Don't stop," Greg sighed, eyes fluttering shut as Mycroft moved between his legs, the leaner man riding him slow and sure. He settled deeper into the soft bed, running his hands along Mycroft's sides as the spymaster woke him thoroughly. Waking with a hard cock nudging at his opening before he even had time to think was perfection, making him groan and sigh, languid and content.

"Never stop," Mycroft gasped as he plunged deep, lifting Greg's left leg behind his knee and putting it over his shoulder, opening Greg wider for his cock to slide in and out. The burn was powerful, Mycroft having spared minimal time preparing him before taking him deep and fast. There was more than enough lube, and Mycroft moved with a vengeance. Heat built slowly in Greg's core, the wet slick generously applied to himself and his lover letting Mycroft move with ease, stretching him, going deeper with each thrust.

Greg opened his eyes, catching the light from the lone street lamp outside the townhouse in a narrow beam that sliced through their bedroom, illuminating Mycroft's face above him. His skin was cast in golden hues from the false dawn, sweat running from his temples, eyes fierce and intense, as Mycroft lowered himself to rest his weight fully atop Greg. His long arms wrapped under and up around Greg's shoulders, gripping hard, giving the spymaster more to push against.

Greg groaned, eyes rolling back in his head, as Mycroft's angle changed, his thick, hot cock plunging right over his prostate, hitting it dead center with each driving thrust. The sound of sex filled the room, sweaty flesh hitting flesh, the wet noises of a well-lubed cock and hole mixing with their deep groans and gasps.

This was fucking. Primal, needy, messy fucking, the both of them reduced to lust and aching want as their higher functions succumbed beneath a layer of rutting heat. Greg relaxed, lifting his other leg higher, giving Mycroft more access, instinctively submitting to the man riding him with desperate need.

It was the look in Mycroft's eyes that drove all ability to think out of Greg's head. This was a wildness, all animal instinct to the fore, the possessive drive of the beast to dominate and claim his mate. Mycroft now revealed a side he never showed anyone, rarely even Greg, even in their most intense couplings. The vaulted and esteemed mind of Mycroft Holmes was usurped by the madness of lust and urgency, and Greg submitted to his own desires that this state in his mate pulled out of the corners of his lower mind.

Head thrown back, mouth wide as short, rough cries burst free from his throat on every brutal thrust from the man on top of him. He was crying, a constant stream of tears pouring down his temples into his dark gray hair, the sensations too intense to bear. Mycroft grinned down at him, a smile full of white teeth and taut lips, eyes bright and feral, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose. Greg lifted his knees higher, tilting his hips, and both men groaned at the change in angle, the spymaster tagging his prostate now with greater accuracy, fucking him deeper. Mycroft bottomed out with each stroke, and Greg cried out every time in matching rhythm, fingers clawing at the spymaster's shoulders.

"Mine," snarled the spymaster, and Greg was barely coherent enough to moan in response. Mycroft paused his ruthless pace, slowly withdrawing until the only tip of his rock-hard shaft remained inside, and he took a painful handful of Greg's hair. Tipping Greg's head so they were eye-to-eye and it was impossible for Greg to look anywhere but into Mycroft's eyes, the spymaster repeated his claim. "You're mine, Gregory."

"Yesss…. Oh, God," Greg whispered brokenly, as Mycroft slammed himself balls deep, resuming his frenetic pace of plunge and swift withdrawal. "Mycroft!" Greg screamed, the possession in his lover's words, the tight grip he maintained in his hair enough to send him roaring over the edge of his climax, plummeting into an orgasm that made every muscle clench from head to toe.

Mycroft rode him through his orgasm, slamming in deeper and deeper with each downward thrust, the spymaster ruling his body, forcing Greg to spray thick ropes of seed between their bodies, the hot liquid adding to the rivulets of sweat running from them to the sheets.

"I'll never let you go," Mycroft whispered, words ragged, and he curled his lean body over Greg. Burying his swollen cock as deeply as it could go, he made Greg cry out at the intense wet heat filling his body as Mycroft came.

Greg must have passed out, as he came to with Mycroft cradling him to his whip-lean chest, long fingers running through his sweat dampened hair. Dawn was approaching the horizon, and soon the day would encroach on their secluded space. Mycroft's heart beat true and hard beneath his ear, his skin damp and flushed, chest rising and falling with each life-affirming breath. Greg lay limply on his lover, lacking even the energy to lift his head and gift Mycroft with a smile.

Eventually he found the power to move, lifting his chin slightly. He saw Mycroft watching him, his eyes black in the gray overtones of the pre-dawn hour.

"I will never let you go, Gregory," Mycroft murmured, fingers feathering through the strands of hair over Greg's forehead, the touch light, yet full of promise. "I cannot bear another loss. My heart won't survive it."

"I won't be going anywhere, love. Not while there's breath left in my body," Greg promised, meaning every word.

His body, now awake, was complaining, still sore and battered from the explosions. He was far better off than most, and luckily he would escape this near-miss with naught but scrapes and bruises and a few minor cuts. He was alive. Others weren't.

"Any plans for the day? Other than the obvious?" Greg asked into the quiet that had developed after his vow.

"I shall be tearing apart the fabric of our society in an attempt to discover the domestic terrorists that decided to bomb our streets," Mycroft intoned, looking up at the ceiling above their bed as his fingers continued to play in Greg's hair. "But other than that, nothing."

"I wonder if I'll be able to sleep in this morning for once…" Greg mused, just as his mobile trilled from the nightstand. "Speak of the Devil," Greg moaned, and he couldn't find the initiative or the strength to reach for it.

Mycroft plucked the offending piece of technology off the nightstand, and checked the Caller ID. "Not the Devil, Gregory. A lesser scion at the Yard, apparently."

"No rest for the wicked, or the righteous who chase them," Greg groused as he accepted the mobile, swiping to answer the incoming call from Dispatch.

* * *

><p><strong>Highgate Cemetery<strong>

**January 19****th**

**Dawn—Early Morning**

"Oh fuck me, Sherlock," Violet gasped, covering her mouth, eyes wide, spinning away from the scene at the base of the statue. She gagged, and John put a hand on her shoulder, holding her steady.

"Not the morning for requesting illicit relations, niece of mine," Sherlock replied, tugging his gloves over his lean wrists before ducking under the crime scene tape and heading for Lestrade and the corpse. Violet gave a rough snort of laughter even as she tried to keep the bile down that threatened to expel her breakfast.

Technicians clad in dull blue bodysuits canvased the graveyard, in the oldest section of Highgate where an early morning mourner had come to see the Angel of Death statue in this little traveled nook. Police vehicles filled the narrow street that wove among the headstones, and the gravel and cracked pavement crunched under booted feet and tires, breaking through the morning layer of frost.

Violet exhaled roughly, and dropped her hand from her mouth, and she leaned on John, the older man a solid and comforting presence at her side. The short ex-army doctor was calm, the gore a few yards away not affecting him in the least, not that she could see. His smile was small and tight, restrained in the horrific, oppressive atmosphere that seemed to hover over the graveyard despite the rising sun.

"Not going to pass out, right? I don't need to be trying to treat you for a concussion out here, surrounded by overzealous coppers. Too many things to hit your head on, and too many hands wanting to help," John said, a wry smile twisting the corner of his lips as he took in her pallor and her nod. "Good. I'm too tired to fight off smitten policemen."

"Pfft," Violet scoffed, steadfastly refusing to turn around and watch her youngest uncle work the bloody crime scene. Maybe if the corpse wasn't still hanging from the statue she could manage it, but with the body swaying in the cold winter wind and the frosted blood glittering in the pale sunlight, it was just too much for her to handle.

"Don't 'ppfftt' at me, young lady," John said, dark blue eyes twinkling, even as he glanced past her shoulder to check on Sherlock. "Half of the men who report to Lestrade are in love with you. I swear they fight over who gets to respond to calls when they learn the _two Holmes_ and the doctor are with Lestrade at a crime scene."

"I don't come every time you guys have a case, so I don't think that's what's going on here, buddy," Violet grumbled, nudging his side with her elbow. "They could all be here for Sherlock ya know. My uncle's famous. And sexy."

"That he is," John drawled, his dark blue eyes crinkling as he sent Sherlock an expression mixed equally with love and irritation. "Or maybe it's the chance to work a serial killer case that's drawing them in like bright yellow flies to honey."

Violet _humphed _in agreement, eyeing the hordes of police in glaringly bright jackets, the yellow so offensive it was impossible to miss. Which was the point, she knew that, but she still missed the dark blue and blacks of the average American cop's uniform. And the hats here were weird, too. Though the winter versions weren't so…stiff.

"Do they have the body down yet?" Violet asked, still refusing to turn around. She could hear Sherlock's deep and elegant baritone and Lestrade's more unique accents over the subtle thrum of engines and other people's conversations, but not the individual words.

"Not yet, no," John said ruefully, and Violet sighed.

"Why did I come with you guys again?"

"We ended up in the same cab because you and Sherlock were so absorbed in ignoring each other after the other day's incident that neither of you noticed we were here until it was too late?" John supplied, a soft chuckle escaping his lips, making her glare at her soon-to-be-uncle.

"Oh yeah, that's why." Violet blew out a sharp breath of air, and leaned even more on John's shoulder, grateful for the heat pouring off his compact body. He may be short, but he was all muscle. Not rock solid, he was in his forties and he didn't work out often that she could see, but the last two years of stress, grief and bicycling nearly everywhere had left John Watson strong and lean enough to prove age and size didn't mean everything.

"Is he okay?" Violet had to ask, biting her lip. "After what happened?"

"You mean after you chased him from the room when you asked him about your dad, and accused him in a round-about way of looking the other way while his brother killed tons of people?"

"Well, fuck. Yeah, that. He okay?"

"He's never going to be okay, Violet. Stable, occupied, distracted and entertained are the states we all need him to be in, but okay is something he will never be. And we don't want him to be okay."

"You sound so certain of that," Violet said softly, looking John fully in the face, ignoring the flashes of white sheets in the corner of her eye as people moved around the spot where the body hung suspended from the statue. For some reason John's words made her feel sad, almost defeated. Sherlock deserved happiness, and peace.

If Sherlock couldn't be even just a simple 'okay', then Violet didn't know what she would do. She didn't know how this conversation turned to Sherlock's potential to be happy and carefree, but she found herself suddenly wishing with everything she had in her that she could provide her uncle with a measure of the peace he must surely be lacking.

John gave her a quick look, then a longer one as he registered the sadness she couldn't hide. "Oh Violet, love. No. He's happy, most days. He loves me, he knows I love him, and we have never been closer, more in tune with each other. His heart is safe, and thriving. It's his demons that will never be gone, not completely, and they have scarred him so deeply he may never recover from them. His past has changed him, made him the way he is now, and for Sherlock to become the generic definition of 'okay', he would stop being the man we know and love."

"Oh, well, we can't have that," Violet said tearfully, smiling as she wiped at her eyes. "A 'normal' Sherlock would be downright scary."

"We would all be lesser for it, too."

Violet relaxed, and turned sideways, dropping her head to rest on John's temple, and one of his arm's wrapped around her ribs, pulling her close. She hugged him around the neck, the height difference almost making the hug impossible, but they managed. Violet closed her eyes and let the man she loved as much as her two uncles hold her tight, the steadfast and strong doctor making her feel safer than she had in weeks.

John watched his fiancé quietly, rubbing his free hand over Violet's hair as she kept her eyes off the dead woman, who resembled a savaged piece of meat and less the human she would have been hours before.

* * *

><p>Sherlock did his utmost best to tolerate the fluttering techs, all of them whispering excitedly amongst themselves as the coroner and his assistant gently lowered the latest victim to the body bag waiting beneath the Angel.<p>

Or he was ignoring them, until a certain phrase caught his ear.

"You! There! The moron with the cheating wife and three cats!" Sherlock snapped, pointing to one of the techs draped in a blue body suit, looking like an overripe berry with his winter clothing doubling his size. The tech jumped, hand to his chest, visibly swallowing as Sherlock crooked a finger at him, imperiously summoning him over.

The tech stumbled through the snow and ice, his stub nose and glasses giving him an especially idiotic appearance. Sherlock eyed the tech, who was now sweating with nerves, despite the chill and sporadic snowflakes.

"What did you just say?" Sherlock demanded, scarf picked at by an errant breeze. The end smacked the tech in the face, who was too frightened of the taller man to do more than blink.

"Sir-r-rr?" he stammered, glasses fogging as his breathing sped up. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and grimaced.

"What did you just say? Mere seconds ago? Is your brain incapable of retaining thoughts past a handful of seconds?" Sherlock said, any patience he may have had soon exhausted by the idiot in front of him. Less a man and more a goldfish; he wondered if Mycroft was looking for any new aides.

"Oh! Um. Well…..I said this looked like another one of the Gothic Manslayer's victims?" the tech offered with trepidation, face going red as Sherlock gave him a scathing look of incredulity.

"Gothic Manslayer?" Sherlock shouted, utterly floored with the moronic misnomer. The entire graveyard went quiet but for the wind, and Sherlock saw John break away from Violet and start heading his way through the tombstones. "Who in the Great Abyss of Wasted Potential came up with that moniker?"

The tech shakily raised his hand, and then squeaked in terror as Sherlock threw up his own hands in disgust, waving the short man away just as John gained his side. The tech ran for the comforting presence of his cohorts, the lot of them hiding behind a garish headstone.

"I hear that come out of anyone's mouths while I'm in hearing distance I'll resort to truly dreadful experiments at NYS!" Sherlock roared, sending the techs into hiding deeper in the cemetery. He spun to John, who gave him a small, tight smile, eyes distant, their blue somehow cooler. Not because pf his antics; but for the presence of the corpse nearby, his doctor withdrawn to protect himself.

"Did you hear that, John? 'Gothic Manslayer'. My brain actually hurts now. Blinding pain, right through my brain, all due to the level of stupid in my immediate environment. That's it John; I'm allergic to stupid." Sherlock moaned piteously, running a hand through his curls before twirling to observe the coroner removing the body from its restraints.

"There is no such allergy, though if it's ever discovered I'm sure you'll have it in spades," John patted him on his lower back, a solid presence at his side. Some warmth crept back into his eyes, his voice, and Sherlock played up his antics, hoping to earn a real smile from his lover.

"Be careful with those ropes! Don't contaminate them!" Sherlock snapped at the coroner, who very manly withheld a return comment. "Couldn't they come up with something marginally original and somewhat accurate? Where's the standard of education in this country?"

"In the toilet along with the rest of the world? No one needs to think anymore, now that our mobiles know our lives better than we do," John retorted, and Sherlock snorted in agreement.

"How about the Glorifying Misogynistic Woman-slayer? Or the Gothic Monster? The Devil's Disciple?" Sherlock perked up at the last one, thinking hard about how it sounded. He shrugged, shelving the idea for later.

"What?" John asked, the doctor's perception towards his moods ever sharpening. "You liked that last one, didn't you?"

"Don't know what you're on about," Sherlock said primly, stepping over a short stone and approaching the body where it lay atop the black bag.

John chuckled, a short yet rich sound that melted into Sherlock's bones. He fought back a smile, but sent his doctor a sideways glance under his lashes. John gave him a smile, a real one this time, and followed in his wake as they approached the body.

* * *

><p>Violet wrapped her coat tight under her chin, watching as her uncles did their job. Thankfully they obstructed her view of the corpse, both men looking down at it as they gestured, presumably talking about evidence and clues. Violet shivered, hunkering down deeper into the warm folds of her ladies' Belstaff, squinting against the morning sun.<p>

A smooth rumble echoed over the headstones, and Violet turned. She saw the approach of the Jaguar as it ghosted like a demon through the frozen mists and shadows of the cemetery, moving police personnel and vehicles by sheer presence….and the government plates.

The luxury car purred to a halt inches from her black leather boots, and across the top of the car the driver opened the door and stood.

"Ms. Hunter, Mr. Holmes requests your presence at your earliest convenience," he intoned gravely, eyes hidden by black shades. He looked as nameless as any other governmental employee around the world. They all seemed to come standard in a black suit, stony expressions, and black shades. And zero personality.

"At my earliest convenience? Surely he means at his convenience. Which means now, I suppose," Violet said wryly, the sun glinting off the frost building on the top of the car. She gave the man a wink, and grinned widely as a pink hue bloomed on his cheeks. It may be from the cold air, but she doubted it. Seems this peon had some hot blood in him after all. "Please tell my uncle that his convenience matches mine. I'll be along in a moment."

He nodded curtly, and slipped back inside the car, shutting the door quietly. She pulled out her mobile, and flicked on the screen. No texts. Weird. Mycroft usually sent a text, or she would get an alert of some kind that Mycroft was sending for her. The aides in the bunker probably upgraded the system's security in the last few hours.

Violet turned back to the crime scene, and put two fingers to her lips. She let rip a blistering whistle, making every living person and probably some deceased look in her direction. Dozens of eyes landed on her and she grinned wide, cocking her head and letting the breeze carry her long black hair off her shoulders. Men stared, and she let a bit of deviltry enter her smile, twitching her grin into something devious. She laughed, and a few men stumbled nearby.

Maybe John was right after all.

John and Sherlock both turned to look, and she nodded and waved a hand towards the luxury car. John saluted and gave her a goodbye wave, before returning his focus to the body. Sherlock stood still for a moment, then slowly nodded as well, before returning his attention to the body.

Violet strode to the rear, and opened the door, slipping inside the warm interior. The butter soft leather seats cradled her as she shut the door, and the car pulled away, taking the tight curves of the cemetery road with liquid agility.

Streets blurred by as the car wove through the city, and she held her mobile in one gloved hand, watching as the rising sun moved across the black screen and her lap. She was so entranced by the shifting light that when the ride went on longer than she thought, she lifted her head, and saw she was on the far side of town.

Nowhere near Mycroft's townhouse and the bunker.

The car pulled under an open bay door, and disappeared into the shadows of a vast, empty space. Some kind of warehouse.

The car slowly came to a stop, and Violet gaped in confusion as the driver turned off the car, pulled the keys from the ignition, and exited the vehicle. He slipped away into the shadows before she could ask what was going on, and she sat back in her seat, feeling a hint of fear.

She stared, one hand on the door handle, and she was about to get out as well, when her mobile chimed. She jumped, and swore under her breath as she opened the text.

**Get out of the car, Ms. Holmes.**

_Ms. Holmes? Why call me Ms. Holmes? Everyone knows its Hunter, not Holmes. I was only ever a Holmes before we moved to the States when I was two. Before Mom changed our names._

Violet stared at the mobile, afraid to leave the dubious protection of the car. The driver had the keys, and could open the vehicle, but the doors shut could give her a few precious seconds to dig out her stun guns and call Sherlock. She opened a call to Sherlock even as she hit the locks, but a dull thunk from the door made her stop.

The locks weren't engaging. The mobile chimed again, and she saw the text even as she accessed the phone.

**Get out of the car, Violet.**

Violet dialed Sherlock, and held the mobile to her ear, but the flat tone of a dropped call was all she heard. She brought it down from her ear, and stared at it, truly getting alarmed now.

It chimed again. Another text.

**Now, Violet. We won't have much time before they come for you.**

"Fuck."

* * *

><p>Sherlock turned back to watch as Violet got in the car, the black Jaguar disappearing in the early morning mist.<p>

Something was wrong.

"Sherlock?"

He moved, walking towards the small one lane road the car had taken to get to the crime scene. He stared down at the thin layer of ice and snow, the treads of the car perfectly outlined.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted, almost in his ear. Sherlock glared at him, and pointed to the ground.

"Call your lover, Detective Inspector," Sherlock ordered, taking out his mobile and bringing up traffic patterns.

"What? Why? He just sent for her, he won't bring her back now, just because you want him to." Lestrade shook his head, and was about to walk away when Sherlock grabbed his collar and yanked him back.

"That wasn't Mycroft's car!" Sherlock shouted, as John ran to them where they stood.

"What's going on?" the doctor asked, eyes wide, intent on Sherlock.

"John, that wasn't Mycroft's car. Wrong plate series, wrong tire tread pattern. Different driver. It took me too long to piece together, the crime scene distracted me!" Sherlock spun, glaring at his mobile as it slowly loaded, reception bad here amongst the dead.

"What?" Lestrade asked again, obviously not following along.

"Violet's been abducted! Again! And I'll be damned before I let Mycroft blame this one time on me, too!"


	66. Thicker Than Blood

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but he owns me.**

**A/N: Surprised myself. Found the time to write another 5k words. BOOM!**

**I may post another chapter this month (February 2015), or I may not. It won't be long between chapters, so don't worry.**

**Read, enjoy, review.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 66<strong>

"_**Thicker Than Blood"**_

**January 19****th**

**Early Morning**

**Somewhere in London**

* * *

><p><strong> No one will harm you. Get out of the car, Violet.<strong>

Violet shuddered, gripping her mobile so tight the case creaked. She dug one-handed through the folds of her coat, finally grasping the handle of her Taser, eyes lifting to scan the area around the Jaguar in which she sat.

The warehouse was decrepit, crumbling around the car, the pavement reduced to gravel, water dripping and pooling in the shadows. It was quiet enough she could hear the _drip drip drip_ of oily water, the scent of long-ago chemicals filling the car with the air system off.

She jumped as the mobile chimed again.

**Now, my child.**

_What? What does…who is this?_

Violet felt a river of unease, and terrible curiosity run through her core, and her hand was moving for the door handle before she gave thought to leaving the car. She opened the door and stood, clutching her coat together under her chin, a stiff breeze billowing about her feet. The wind caught the door and slammed it shut, and she was thankful she maintained her grip on her mobile and Taser, the weapon hidden in the folds of her coat.

Echoes bounced along the concrete walls in the darkness, the morning light too weak to penetrate too far into the warehouse. The sound of the door shutting traveled deep into the cavernous dark ahead of her, and she stared, somehow knowing that her abductor was there, watching.

"This is all Mycroft's style, all cloak and dagger and old world mystique," she called lightly, her voice echoing, "Though you did have to resort to subterfuge to get me here."

No response…..at first. She heard it, faintly at first, then with more certainty as it grew louder.

Someone was chuckling.

It was rich and deep, velvety and smooth, like the finest chocolate. It came out from the shadows, and seeped into her pores. A current of something powerful ran over her skin, akin to static discharge, prickling and energizing. This sound was familiar, so close to another's laughter that she was about to call a man's name, but someone who couldn't possibly be here…

"I can hear you, show yourself," she challenged, stepping away from the car, towards where she thought the sound originated. Shoulders back, chin up, she refused to show fear.

It may have been her imagination, but she thought she saw a silhouette, tall and slim, a shadow among shadows, darkness against darkness. There was movement, and Violet braved another few steps forward. She peered hard, almost able to see the defined shape of something. She wanted, needed to see who dared copy Mycroft Holmes, dared to take her from under Sherlock's nose.

She wanted to see who would call her Holmes, and call her child.

"Who are you?" she asked again, quietly, closer now, so close the darkness was defined, the tall shape before her a man most definitely.

"My darling, you know who I am," rumbled her apparition in the darkness. He was closer than she thought, a mere arm's reach away.

"Holy fuck!" Violet gasped, stumbling back a step, ready to fall. She lost her grip on mobile and Taser, and they clattered to the gravel as she fell too. She cringed, anticipating the scrape of cold stone and the chill of damp clothes.

Until death-white hands reached out from the black, and lifted her back to her feet, cradled gently in steel-bands that resembled arms. She was held in the lightest of embraces, against a solid frame of a muscular man, hands pressed to muscles under a fine silk shirt pulled tight across his chest. The fabric was cool to the touch, but the warmth of the flesh underneath gave credence to the fact that this was no ghost, but a man.

_A ghost, a dream, a hallucination…he can't be here._

A hand buried itself in her hair on the back of her head, and she found herself hugging the stranger, face resting on the column of his lean neck. She breathed in, and the scent of freshly carved wood and hot metal swept across her senses.

A dream, a sweet, impossible dream….memory and present overlapped. She'd felt these arms around her before…long ago.

A kiss dusted gently over her brow, and she sighed.

_I am dreaming. This is a dream….._

Her heart knew who this was. Her mind, the ever effervescent and quicksilver tool of the Holmes lineage, was at once quieted, shocked by the impossibility of the reality she was currently experiencing. Her eyes closed, her shoulders relaxed, and she rested, feeling at once safer, and more endangered, _never more alive than this instant in time…._

"Not possible," she exhaled lightly, wrapping her arms more securely around the lean waist under the thick long coat. The chill of the abandoned warehouse was banished, and the creepy environment no longer held any danger for her. She was in the arms of the deadliest creature to ever walk the halls of mankind, and she had nothing to fear. "This is a dream, it must be….because this is impossible."

She would never fear her own father. She couldn't.

He loved her, a fact she knew better than the most basic of base code in programming.

"Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth," he murmured in her ear, and she could hear the smile in his words.

"I think I've gone mad at last, just like my uncles…and my father," she replied, smiling now as well in the shadows. "I should be screaming, and running, but all I want is for you to hold me. I've gone mad."

"There is no shame in madness, my daughter. For we Holmes do it with flair and originality, and eclipse all lesser mortals," Sherrinford Holmes assured her, and Violet snorted in laughter. Her father's answering chuckle drifted in the darkness, and Violet embraced the dream, even if it was insanity.

"Welcome home, Violet Holmes."

* * *

><p><strong>Highgate Cemetery<strong>

**January 19****th**

Greg dialed, eyeing Sherlock as the detective glared at him with an intensity in his celestial gaze that threatened to burn a hole in his skull.

"Gregory? Is something wrong?" Mycroft asked as the line opened, which wasn't surprising since it was barely over an hour since they'd seen each other last.

"Did you send for Violet?" Greg asked, kicking at some ice clumps as he paced between markers. He put the mobile on Speaker, and Sherlock didn't even acknowledge the courtesy, so focused was he.

"I sent a car for her just a moment ago, yes," Mycroft answered, mildly exasperated. His voice sounded faraway and tinny through the mobile's speakers, the wind not helping. "Tell Sherlock he cannot monopolize her time, she has chosen to assist me, and unless she chooses otherwise…"

"Darling, did you send a car that picked her up a couple of minutes ago, or did you just send the car for her _now?"_ Greg stressed, seeing the need for the distinction in Sherlock's demeanor.

"The car cannot have picked her up, as it has yet to reach Highgate…Who has Violet?" Mycroft roared over the phone, his mind making the intuitive leap that someone else had Violet.

"I was hoping that was you. A car we all thought was one of yours picked her up about five minutes ago, and Sherlock is convinced she was abducted," Greg quickly filled his lover in, warily giving Sherlock room as he prowled along the roadway, moving like a predator about to pounce upon prey.

"For all his faults he is correct more often than he is wrong," Mycroft stated curtly. "I've started a trace on her mobile. It will find her in thirty seconds, standby."

The three of them, John, Greg and Sherlock, waited in the cemetery, surrounded by the long dead, and the recently departed. The living all gave them a wide berth, Sherlock's stance and eyes conveying his need to rend idiots and fools limb from limb. The wind howled, a hollow sound that sucked any joy and hope from the false cheer of the golden morning light.

"I have her. Abandoned warehouse, outskirts of town. I've sent the coordinates to your mobile, and alerted MI6." Mycroft spoke swiftly, and Greg's mobile chimed as it received the information. "Gregory, retrieve my niece and bring her to me, along with the fools who dared to take what is mine."

"C'mon boys, I've got the place here," Greg said as the line dropped, waving his mobile. Though he wasn't fool enough to think Mycroft wasn't aware of everything going on around them. Once the spymaster's eye moved to a target, he rarely missed a thing.

* * *

><p><strong>The Warehouse<strong>

"Come, my dear. They are coming for you, we have little time left," Sherrinford said, and Violet blinked up at him, suddenly tired and lethargic.

"What? Who's coming?" she murmured, raising a hand to her temple, a dull throb building in her head. "What's wrong with my head?"

"There was a sedative expelled as an aerosol in the car just before you stepped out, so as to keep you from panicking. An unnecessary step, but I was convinced by my companion that wasting time calming you would lead to my capture. He was right, though I do apologize," her father replied as he stepped back, taking a firm hold on her elbow, holding her steady as she weaved on her feet. "Just breathe, child, the effects will wear off in a few moments."

"Dad, did you drug me?" she tried to shriek, albeit quietly, the drugs keeping her from getting too worked up.

"Yes, Violet, I did. You're perfectly fine, I'd never hurt you."

"You're all the same," she said quietly, snorting on a giggle that tried to break free. "Sherlock does things like that all the time."

"Though with less finesse, I assume," Sherrinford answered, helping her walk along the broken floor of the warehouse. Her half boots were stylish and sexy, though ill-suited to walking on rough terrain. She was thankful for his hand on her arm even as she resented the necessity.

"He messes around with the dosage too much, I've been lucky enough to not get caught," Violet said, and finally laughed, the peal ringing out through the vast empty space as they neared a rear wall. "He gets John on a weekly basis. Took my daddy to bring me low." She laughed again, and Sherrinford smiled at the joyful sound. She wanted to skip, but couldn't tell her legs to move right.

"Are you really here? I though Mycroft killed you," she mused, trying not to pout. He gave her an indulgent look, lips quirked in a small twist. "And I thought you were a monster. My Daddy, the serial killer. Why are you so nice to me?"

"Mycroft tried, I am, and because I love you, my child," he patiently answered, and Violet had to take a second to think about his answers.

"I know you do," she whispered, and she was suddenly dizzy. Her head found his shoulder, his arm around her hips, holding her up as they kept walking away from the car. "Never doubted that."

"Never?" he whispered as the shadows swallowed them whole.

"The only thing I remembered about you was that you loved me," she whispered back, just as she passed out.

* * *

><p>Sherrin slung his daughter up into his arms, striding from the main floor of the warehouse to a rear loading dock where the limo waited, idling. She was all long limbs and loose elegance, her flawless features relaxed in slumber. The drugs were hitting her harder than anticipated. He had been looking forward to talking to her in the car during the ride to his safe-house, but he would content himself with holding his wayward child in his arms instead.<p>

So many years wasted as her mother hid her from him, his child grown and now a woman. A brilliant, intelligent, beautiful and talented woman. And yet still his little girl.

"Too much happy gas?" James asked as he got out of the driver's side of the limo and opened the rear door for him and his precious burden. James had already removed the disguise he'd worn to the cemetery, and the wild look was back in his dark eyes, no longer hidden by the shades.

"She took too long deciding to get out. A miscalculation on your part," Sherrin said, giving his companion a hard glance before gliding across the seat, his daughter safe in his arms.

"No worse for the experience," James replied, and he laughed quietly to himself as he got in the limo and pulled away from the warehouse. "I told you this would work."

"You drop the mobile?" he asked through the open partition, navigating the limo down a narrow alley between warehouses. They were not too far away from where Jaime Moriarty nearly lost her life saving Violet. At that thought, Sherrin held her closer, tucking her beneath his chin, her lovely face relaxed in sleep.

"She did, actually," Sherrin answered, "I just declined to remind her."

Violet's head lolled across his arm, and he put a hand on her fair cheek, brushing away strands of her long black hair. It was the longest it had been in years, as if she felt it were finally safe to let herself go, here in London. She was obviously starting to think of this place as home. That pleased him; it was his intention to call London home as well.

He saw in her face his own; he saw her mother too. Her smile, the way she looked sideways at others, the way she moved. Many of those traits were similar to his own, but were mostly her mother's. The lovely, the eternally missed, Evangeline. His first, and only love.

James was dear to him, closer than any who had ever dared to love him, but what he felt for the eldest Moriarty was nothing compared to the love he felt for the child in his arms, and the woman who birthed her. It took him years, but he eventually found his wayward wife and child.

Too late to save Evangeline, her illness progressed past the point of hope. Violet, already a self-sufficient and highly capable young girl of thirteen, managed to evade the long reach of the American child services, and the men he'd sent to retrieve her. She'd erased herself from the system, by the brashest and most devious means possible, and gone to ground. He hadn't found her again until she'd returned to England, and met her uncles, purely by chance.

Or so she thought.

By the grace of the genetic lottery he was a fair hand at mathematics and engineering, and often made forays into computer and software programming. It was during one of his artistic dry spells that he came across hints of an intrepid young hacker, who many in the underground ethos of the internet claimed was the creator of the mythical Clean Slate. He knew how Violet managed to disappear, as the clues were there for anyone smart enough to put the pieces together; so this young hacker could very well be his daughter.

He'd hacked the hacker; he found she was searching for information on colleges and schools in England. Here in London, actually. And she did not know it, but her uncle, the young Sherlock, was going to the very same university that both her father and her mother had attended years before. It was too perfect a chance. He stopped chasing his child, and let her come home, and she thought the whole time it was her idea.

It took some doing, but laying the groundwork, the suggestions into her searches and research for her to attend the very same university as her family were planted. And so the youngest Holmes came home at last, and with her father watching as best he could from across the Channel, Violet met her uncles, first the youngest, then the middle Holmes son.

Sherlock acted predictably, discerning most of Violet's past and then her identity in fairly short order. The emotional implications kept Sherlock removed for a time, but Violet's nature and her personality eventually won over her uncle. Mycroft was the real surprise; instead of completely ignoring the young woman loosely attached to his brother's small circle of acquaintances, Mycroft utilized her skills, and monitored her influence on his younger brother. Sherrin was still amazed Mycroft hadn't recognized Violet for who she was immediately, but then Mycroft had a talent for denial. His guilt over betraying and killing, so he thought, his eldest brother must have done much to damage his psyche.

Sherlock and Mycroft may not have been the best to guard a young woman of fifteen, but despite his animosity towards his younger siblings, Sherrinford knew that both Sherlock and Mycroft would never let anything irreparable happen to his only child. They were the perfect watchdogs, even if they thought they'd made the decision to play her guardians themselves.

For their entire lives he'd manipulated and controlled them, and this would be no different. It was time for his daughter to claim her heritage, take her place by his side, and choose.

Choose if she would be her mother's daughter, or her father's.

Now all he had to do was ensure that when her uncles died, that Violet's love for him would outweigh her hatred and anger. She loved Sherlock and Mycroft; she would just have to love him more.

It would be a daunting task, but one he'd accomplished before. After all, her mother died still loving him.

* * *

><p>Mycroft exited the town car, taking in the flurry of activity around the abandoned warehouse where Violet's mobile GPS signal was last pinged. According to his techs, the device was still active, and somewhere inside the building.<p>

"Sir! You can't go in there yet, we haven't cleared the building!" a man in tactical gear yelled as he tried to stop Sherlock as he shrugged off a restraining hand, John Watson on his heels as always.

"The building is clear, you fool! She isn't here anymore, too much time was wasted!" Sherlock retorted over his shoulder as he entered the open bay doors, John with his weapon out at his side, sweeping in front of them as they disappeared into the shadows.

"Sorry, darling, neither Sherlock nor John would wait," Gregory said as he moved to his side, out of breath. "Her mobile is still inside, and was active just a few minutes ago. She could be in there."

Mycroft eyed the building, and came to the same conclusion as his younger brother. Violet was no longer here. This area was a warren of back alleys and roads, buildings and access points. She was gone.

"No, Sherlock is right. Violet is gone," Mycroft stepped away from the car, and made for the building, Gregory at his side. "Her mobile is here, but she won't be. Access the CCTVs in the immediate vicinity, live feed and rewind twenty minutes."

"On it," Gregory said, calling over a young officer and whispering instructions to him, even as he watched Mycroft approach the open doors.

Gregory caught up to him as Mycroft made the doors, but both men stopped as Sherlock and John materialized from the shadows, Sherlock holding Violet's flashy and very high-tech mobile in his hand.

"What is it?" Mycroft asked impatiently, and John gave him a small, tight smile, the one Mycroft always assumed John wore in battle. It was less a smile and more of an unspoken promise of violence.

"Whoever took her knew her, knew we would be coming for her in short order, and made every effort not to scare her," Sherlock said, and he tossed the mobile. Mycroft barely caught it, but he saw the texts clearly enough. "She got out of the car willingly, and spoke for some time with her abductor. She dropped her Taser along with her mobile. I saw no signs she tried to pick either up again. Though I am concerned, tracks suggest she was carried out at some point."

"So she knew her abductor, but did not go with him or her willingly. I'll have a search made on her mobile and laptop, run her acquaintances here in town, see if anyone she knew has recently come to the city." Mycroft waved hand at a nearby MI6 agent, who was close enough to have heard his wishes. The agent melted into the crowd, presumably to begin implementing his instructions.

"There was a smell in the car," John murmured. "Harsh, yet sweet. Very chemical."

"A gaseous sedative, used to keep her calm," Sherlock said, turning to face the darkness in the building.

"Who could do this, and why Violet?" John mused, looking back in the same direction as Sherlock.

"Many have wanted Violet, for similar reasons. Woodley was the outlier," Mycroft offered, voice stark and barren of inflection. Greg put a hand on his shoulder, offering silent support. He was glad for the touch and what it offered, though he showed no sign of it outwardly.

"She was to be in your care now, brother," Sherlock snarled suddenly, and the glare he leveled at Mycroft made him instinctively retreat a step. Greg held him steady, but the wrath emanating from his little brother was a live thing, and he was surprised that the air wasn't burning from the strength of his emotions.

"Sherlock! This is no one's fault!" John admonished. "We'll find her, I promise."

A quickly as the rage appeared it was gone just as fast, Sherlock returned to his usual apathetic pose. His eyes, carved stones from the sky, burned with an intensity that left the still vulnerable part of Mycroft's heart aching. Sherlock gave him a stare he could not decipher, yet when his brother pulled his eyes away, he felt judged, and found wanting.

Sherlock spun on his heels, his coat and scarf flying high on the wind, curls lifted with his movement. John gave him and Greg an apologetic smile, before chasing after his lover.

"Haven't seen him like that in a while," Greg murmured.

"He'll bear watching, my love," Mycroft told him softly, watching until the lean shadow of his brother and his doctor were out of sight, "Whoever took Violet will not have time to fear me; Sherlock will tear them apart before we get there."

"Better get moving then, don't want to be too far behind him. I'm used to cleaning up behind your brother, but that doesn't mean I like doing it," Greg said, and Mycroft let him pull him back towards the cars.

* * *

><p>"Why take Violet in such a way?" Sherlock spoke, startling John where he sat beside his lover in the cab.<p>

"Maybe it was easier?" John replied, trying to help.

"Explain," Sherlock ordered. Though John knew better than to assume Sherlock needed him to explain his point, he knew that speaking his ideas out loud helped Sherlock refine his own.

"Well, she's used to being picked up like that. Mycroft sends that car, and off she goes," John stated, and he nibbled on his lip, thinking hard. "Literally dozens of times in the last few months. I saw nothing unusual about the pickup this morning, so whoever planned this knew Mycroft's routine, and Violet's."

"Anyone with a minuscule amount of intelligence could deduce Violet's behavioral patterns. Mycroft's townhouse, the Leinster Gardens safe house, our flat, Mrs. Hudson's, the café and the nearest shopping centers."

"What's Violet doing at the safe house?" John asked, curious despite the urgency of her absence.

"Using the neighbor's internet to avoid leading anyone back to our flat. She goes there when she's doing something particularly illegal or invasive," Sherlock replied idly, staring out the window, trying to think. "I'm in my mind palace, give me a few moments."

He'd told John he was going to internally replay the last two weeks of memories of his niece, trying to find anything anomalous to explain who had Violet.

"Wait a second! Violet's hacked the Pentagon from a hotel room, MI6 from your mother's kitchen, and every other first world nation from our flat and she goes there for the 'invasive' hacks?" John asked, incredulous. "What is she doing that warrants removing herself to a safe house?"

"Haven't asked," Sherlock murmured, eyes nearly vacant, "wasn't interested."

"Maybe you should have been, considering your niece was just kidnapped!" John snapped, finally exhausted of patience. Sherlock barely twitched, slouched in his seat, as the cab tooled around town, aimless, as per Sherlock's instructions.

"The texts were concerned, familiar in nature. Not to me," Sherlock waved a hand at John as he made a face, "but for Violet. The tone, the inflection, the wording. All very protective, a touch impatient. Someone who knows her, and didn't want her to be frightened. Knew her first instinct would be to run, then fight. He knew what to say to her."

"He?"

"Yes, 'he'," Sherlock whispered, heavenly eyes alight. "He called her, 'my child'."

"Priests do that. Address parishioners as 'my child'," John said, wondering. "So why the drugs, if he were so concerned with how she was handling the situation?"

"Perhaps he knew that what he was going to say would frighten her? Or maybe once she knew who was kidnapping her, she would have run."

"But her tracks…you said she walked willingly up to whoever it was," John didn't bother trying to hide his confusion. The whole situation was confusing.

"I'll alert my network, and contact some mutual acquaintances we have in common," Sherlock told John, sitting up straight. "Take us to Baker Street, 221B."

"What?" John was truly lost now.

"Violet is in no danger, John. I suspect she'll be back soon."

"How the _hell do you know that?"_ John all but screamed through clenched teeth, ready to explode. Sherlock's intransigence and his withholding of his apparent deductions on Violet's current well-being was enough to make John angrier than he'd been in a long time.

"Peace, John," Sherlock finally turned to him, and John found himself pulled to Sherlock's side under his arm. John tried to stay stiff, but soon relaxed into the warm embrace of his lover's arms.

Just as suddenly as he grew angry, John relaxed, the emotions leaving him. Sherlock's familiar scent, the way he felt against him, the way they fit together, all of it was enough to soothe John's worries, or at least push them back enough for him to enjoy the moment.

"She's fine, John," Sherlock whispered. "We just need to wait for her to come home. I'll find out who took her, whether directly from her mouth, or from one of my contacts. I have an idea, anyway. If I'm right, the person who has Violet is perhaps, in a strange way, the safest person for her to be with."

"Keep your secrets, then," John groused, trying not to pout.

"We all have secrets, my love."

* * *

><p>Sherlock held John, the smaller man now dozing as they drove through London's streets, evening traffic slowing their progress home. The winter days were shorter, the sun rapidly setting, the temperature dropping even faster. It was unseasonably cold, and Sherlock was feeling it, too.<p>

He was cold to his very bones. He kept seeing the texts, the last one in particular. There was only one person in all of Violet's life who would call her 'my child'. But he was dead, slain these last nineteen years. By his own brother, no less.

So perhaps it was just a coincidence, a strange inflection on a crazy man's part to speak to Violet so, to take her with such care and precision, all aimed at ensuring she went calmly and without injury. If she were taken for profit or gain of some kind, with coercion the means of guaranteeing her compliance, then she would not have been taken in such a way. The more fear instilled, the greater her chances of cooperating. Violet was brave, but practical. If she was confronted by violence to her person or death, she would do as needed to survive, even if that meant doing as her captors wanted. Woodley was the exception; his manner and actions did nothing but put Violet in the mood to fight back.

When the cab drew up in front of their flat, John was asleep. Something about the motion of the vehicle and being in Sherlock's arms made John fall asleep faster than being drugged.

Sherlock helped John into their home, and poured his unresisting lover into bed. He stood over his lover, clad in his coat and scarf, and waited until he was certain John was not going to wake.

There was a serial killer in London slaying beautiful young women who all bore a superficial resemblance to each other, and a woman who was long dead from terminal illness. His niece, the daughter of Europe's most prolific and successful killer in the last century, was missing.

Finding the killer could very well lead to finding Violet. And Sherlock couldn't find his man with John in tow. He would not, could not, endanger his lover with hunting this particular monster. First, Sherlock would need to prove that his current killer, Violet's abductor, and her late father were all the same monster.

Going to Mycroft was out of the question. Nothing made Mycroft more irrational, more unbalanced, than the very mention of their older brother. His guilt may have lessened since Christmas, but it was a burden Mycroft would always carry. Family was everything to Mycroft, and the fact he was forced to slay their brother, even though he was a monster, weighed heavily on the middle Holmes brother, and that would never change.

So help from Mycroft would not be forthcoming, not until Sherlock had the proof he needed. If he went to Mycroft now, with nothing but intuition and instinct and half-formed deductions, then Mycroft would drum him out of his townhouse and never speak to him again.

Sherlock left the flat, and walked down the darkened street. The traffic was light now, the evening rush over, and the shushing sound of tires through slush was a far off roar. He gathered his coat tightly to his neck and raised the collar, hands in his pockets. Face down, his features hidden, Sherlock disappeared into the shadows off of Baker Street.

* * *

><p><strong>Late Evening<strong>

**St Bart's Hospital**

_Beep beep beep….._

"Here's the last of your pain meds for the evening, Sergeant Donovan," the nurse said with a stiff smile, handing over the small white cup and a glass of water. Sally took them, and gratefully swallowed the medicine, chasing the pills with a mouthful of water.

Her side, back and shoulder ached something dreadful, and she was glad she was no longer attached to the IV bags. The saline and blood bags had bothered her more than she wanted to admit, and having them taken off had been a relief.

"How many units did I end up needing?" Sally asked, voice rough. She was ready to sleep, but she needed to know just how bad it had been. Molly would only tell her so much. The pathologist had left, something about a body from Highgate she needed to examine.

Wondering why Molly would need to examine a body from a cemetery only made her head hurt in addition to the rest of her aches, so she gave up on that topic.

"You got two units, dear," the nurse said, kindly patting her hand and taking the now empty cups. "You're in better shape than a lot of the bombing victims here. Some people got plenty more than just two units. It's a good thing we had a surplus."

"I bet," she murmured, the drugs taking effect fast. She recalled the heat of the fires, the brutal shock of the blast, and was grateful to escape her memories in slumber.

* * *

><p><strong>Sherrinford's House<strong>

**Late Evening**

Jim spied through the open doorway, as his lover gently deposited his daughter in the bed, arranging her limbs to a comfortable position. He snorted softly, astounded on some level at the care Sherrin took, daughter or not.

His mobile vibrated in his suit pocket, and he pulled it out, the screen bright in the dark hallway. He opened the text, and grinned.

"What has you smiling, my dear boy?" Sherrin asked, and Jim looked up to see his lover standing over him in the doorway.

Jim turned the mobile so Sherrin could see the screen, and he was rewarded by a feral smile lighting the eldest Holmes' face.

"Ah, well done, my dear James. I look forward to seeing the fruition of your plans in the weeks to come," Sherrin told him, and Jim let the older man lead him from his daughter's door, shutting it gently behind them. He put his mobile away, and skipped a little with pride and glee. Until he recalled that he didn't hear the door lock click.

"You won't lock her in?" Jim asked, craning his neck to double check that Sherrin had not, in fact, locked the door.

"She won't want to leave, not right away. I'll earn her trust faster if she thinks she has choices," Sherrin said as they walked down the dark hallway to the stairs.

"She's your daughter," Jim said, shrugging. She wasn't part of his plans, but Sherrin's, and he knew better than to interfere.

"That she is, my dear boy," Sherrin growled, and Jim gasped as big hands spanned his waist, pushing him to the wall. Sherrin pushed against him, long and lean, all dangerous muscles and deadly grace. Jim all but melted, and tipped his head back in submission, silently begging his lover to take, to touch, to taste.

And he did.


End file.
